


Lost in New York City—My Descent Beyond Hell

by mizwidget, Wanderer



Series: The Journal of John Reese—My Eyes Only [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Andrew Murphy (Person of Interest), Canon Compliant, Dreams and Nightmares, Drunkenness, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Episode: s02e11 2πR, Episode: s03e10 The Devil's Share, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Homelessness, Missing Scene, Not Beta Read, Original Pilot Script, Photo-artwork by Wanderer, Possible Canon AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, References to Illness, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, driving and crying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:18:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 23,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizwidget/pseuds/mizwidget, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's life between the hospital in New Rochelle, NY and until Harold found him again.</p><p>Photo-Artwork by Wanderer</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. February 8, 2011—Return to the Bronx After New Rochelle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blacktop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktop/gifts), [Wanderer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/gifts), [Stormy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormy/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Looking After John](https://archiveofourown.org/works/534982) by [radioshack84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioshack84/pseuds/radioshack84). 
  * Inspired by [Hell, High Water and Amnesia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/514072) by [Maekala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maekala/pseuds/Maekala). 
  * Inspired by [The Room Above Pooja's](https://archiveofourown.org/works/935074) by [blacktop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktop/pseuds/blacktop). 
  * Inspired by [Shimmer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/527409) by [Wanderer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns to the Bronx.

  

* * * * * * * 

**February 8, 2011**

My body sank in on itself as I sat there crying in that stolen car. 

 

Everything stopped. 

 

Nothing was going to happen, and yet I was waiting for...for...something.  I knew there was no one coming to save me.   I was on my own, dealing with my regret and grief—alone.

 

Just as a couple of cars pulled up into Peter Arndt's driveway, I managed to make my fingers manipulate the ignition wires below the dashboard.   Somehow, despite my clumsy efforts, the engine started and I got the car moving.  My eyes struggled to focus.  I saw four men get out of their cars and start walking, two to the front door of Arndt's house and two to the back.  My gut told me that it was past time for me to get outta there, as I'd promised Sullivan.   I didn't need to witness what was going to happen.  I knew, because I was like those men.

 

I started driving south once I left New Rochelle.  It was less than an hour's drive to Manhattan even during rush hour traffic, but my concentration was shot.  By my original estimation, it was going to take me about as long to make the return trip as it had on my way up to New Rochelle riding the Bee Line Bus System.

 

But I hadn't counted on my emotional state.  I ended up pulling off the road several times along the way, because I couldn't see even past the steering wheel.  Plus there was rain mixed with snow falling, making the roads slick, the driving more difficult.

 

Knowing that I'd failed to be there in time to help Jess, that she was gone, I felt numb and hollowed out.  There were moments when I couldn't drive any more.  Driving safely while crying was not possible.  

 

The front of my dress shirt was damp with tears; the sleeves of my new jacket were slick from where I'd repeatedly wiped my runny nose.

 

Looking back now, I can see that perhaps my subconscious—what I thought then was my misguided sense of self preservation—stopped me from even thinking about running the car into a concrete wall along the highway, committing suicide right then.  Maybe it wasn't even self-preservation.  Maybe it was God or my guardian angel protecting me from myself.  Something or someone kept me safe.  Something wanted me to stay alive, because whatever it was knew I had more yet to do with my life.  Something knew it wasn't time for me to crawl into a hole, pull the edges over and down with me.  As I look back now, remembering that time, maybe I wasn't as alone as I thought.

 

I took an offramp from the main highway in Yonkers, and started driving aimlessly through the city.  I almost ran out of gas.  I found a bus stop that would let me return to the Bronx on a Bee Line Bus.  After parking in a residential area, I ditched the car after thoroughly wiping everything down for fingerprints.  Right then, I couldn't stop old, deeply ingrained habits.

 

The knife cut on my belly started to burn.  I'd forgotten all about it, what with the shock of learning about Jessica's death, and later dealing with Arndt.  I had to return to my hotel room in The Bronx.  I needed to check up on that cut as well as get back to my stuff I'd left there.

 

I'd paid cash for a week in advance for the room where I'd stayed the night before my bus ride to New Rochelle.  I hadn't been sure how much time I was going to need to stay and help Jessica. That backpack I'd traveled with for two months was still there.   I didn't think I'd needed anything I'd carried with me when I'd visited with her at the hospital. 

 

I found myself walking in the same city neighborhood—was it only two days ago?  My mind vacillated from empty, blank, black visions to the blissful plans and dreams I'd expected for my future with Jess.

 

It was dark and past getting late.  The rain and snow had stopped, which was good, but I could feel the temperature dropping as it got darker.

 

On my way back to the fleabag hotel, I walked past a small liquor store, went in and bought what later turned out to be a long series of small pint bottles of cheap whiskey. 

 

When I got to my room, I locked the door behind me.  I checked and re-bandaged the cut, and then drank myself to sleep.  My goal—to block my pain, to stop thinking about Jess and how I'd lost her because I was too late.  My plan was to commit what I thought of as "slow self euthanasia."  A slow death, just like the slow, deliberate torture Jess had endured living with Peter, who had finally killed her. 

 

I drank because I wanted to escape any possibility of dreaming about Jessica.  I didn't want dream about her.   I didn't want her to tell me how I'd failed her.  Deep down, I knew my life was meant to be a never ending disaster.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	2. February 9, 2011—Passed Out on Whiskey

**February 9, 2011**

I woke up in the late afternoon. I tried to roll out of bed. My eyes felt glued shut because I'd been crying in my sleep.  My mouth was dry and my tongue was stuck to the bottom of my mouth; I was hung over with a nasty, pounding headache.  I could feel the scorching edges of the knife wound, even as I tried to ignore the searing pain. I knew I had just two more nights that I could stay in that room.

 

Even though I hadn't eaten in more than two days, I felt no desire to eat.

 

Over the few times Stanton, Snow and I'd been in "enemy territory," in The City, I'd managed to get away from them and their fucking surveillance to secure a few caches of money, handguns and false identification documents, passports and other such necessities around the area of Greater New York City.  I was debating with myself, about whether to free up some cash or not. 

 

I'd had my CIA paychecks deposited into a domestic bank account.  Later, I'd transferred most of that money to an encrypted Swiss bank account.  Still, I was paranoid, concerned whether I could safely access that money without being traced.  Maybe I was overly anxious because I hadn't eaten in so long.

 

I got myself up, threw on my rumpled clothes from the day before.  Not even washing my face or brushing my teeth, I left my room, went back through the sporadic rain and snow to the liquor store for another, larger bottle of whiskey.   I spent this night passed out with the television on.  I don't remember what I was watching.  Besides, the TV was on just for the background noise.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	3. February 10, 2011—Retracing My Steps

**February 10, 2011**

 

Waking up this particular morning was a struggle.  I felt totally fucked up.  This was the last night that I had prepaid for the hotel.

 

The rain and snow showers were continuing today.  I walked to one of the nearby subway entrances, paid for a ticket and spent the day riding the trains all over the City.   Initially, I'd considered taking the subway over to Queens, to dig up one of my personal caches I'd buried in a grave yard.  I'd often thought that the borough of Queens should be called the "City of Graveyards," there were so many, with all of those old tall, carved stone grave markers.

 

I remembered where my first cache was.  Walking from the subway stop in Queens, in the Kew Gardens area, I found the specific grave yard, Maple Grove Cemetery, and next I found the exact head stone that marked my hiding place.  Jesus!  It was almost funny.  I'd forgotten to bring a shovel or trowel to dig up my stash.  I was adrift, my thoughts had no direction.  As far as the digging tools, I gave up, "Goddammit!  Maybe next time."  I felt disappointed with myself—almost enough to pound my head against the carved head stone.

 

My mind wasn't working on all cylinders.  I had no appetite.  The thought of food never crossed my mind all day.  Maybe that's why I had forgotten to bring some kind of a shovel with me?

 

Retracing my steps, I got back on the subway, again wandering around, riding the rail-paths below the City.  I was invisible in the crowds.  The people ebbed and flowed in waves through the subway cars with the time of day.  They never noticed or so much as looked at me.  I hid in plain sight.  I retreated within myself, even though I was surrounded.  I tried to escape from my thoughts and emotions.  My mind was flopping paradoxically back and forth into and out of consciousness, into and out of feeling catatonic.  And yet I was never unaware of my surroundings after all my years of training in Special Forces and the CIA.  I realized I was still going in and out of shock.  Once again, I was back feeling like I was as cold and silent as stone inside, unable to cry and grieve for Jess.  I knew that I had no right or permission for grieving. Her death was all my fault.  What I'd done was unforgivable.

 

At the end of the day, I was surprised to find myself standing at the top of the stairs of the same subway entrance where I'd started earlier.   And just down the sidewalk was the same woman in the long blue coat, pushing her grocery cart filled to the top with her belongings. 

 

I was going in circles, getting nowhere.

 

Returning to my hotel room for the last time, I fell into bed. This night, I was so out of it, I fell asleep without drinking any alcohol.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	4. February 11, 2011—Under the Cold Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I spent an uncomfortable, mostly sleepless night—this time under the cold sky.

**February 11, 2011**

 

This morning, I tore the bedding off the bed, and stuffed it into a laundry basket that I'd found in the hotel basement.   Most of my remaining energy went to cleaning and wiping down the surfaces in the room before I left.  As I walked out, I left the key on the office counter, making sure that I left no fingerprints.

 

All day, I was out wandering the streets.  Part of me knew that I should find a warmer place to spend the night after those days I'd spent sheltered in that hotel, but I'd reached the point where didn't feel that I deserved to sleep in a bed, when Jess was sleeping in the cold ground. Tonight, it was predicted to drop to around ten degrees F. It was good that the rain and snow stopped falling in the late afternoon.  I was carrying my black backpack that I'd taken with me all the way from Ordos.  I took the jacket out I'd purchased in Beijing, and put it on, so I'd at least have something to keep me warm and mostly dry to wear during the night.

 

I spent an uncomfortable, mostly sleepless night—this time under the cold sky.

 

Looking up through the slot between the buildings, I saw Orion, the three stars in his belt shining overhead between the clouds.  A familiar sight.  It was cold.  Maybe a drink of whiskey would help warm me.  I raised my bottle and toasted the Hunter in the Sky and drank a large swig.  I knew that if I could see him, I was in for a much colder night.  My dad used to say, "Clear as a bell, cold as hell."

 

My mind started circling the drain while I sat leaning against a concrete block wall, hidden by a dumpster on the side facing away from the street in a dead end alley.  I was emotionally stuck in place, as I considered my failure to save Jessica's life.  It didn't matter that I'd killed people—some terrorists, and some probably not—all those years while I was working with Stanton.  It didn't matter that I'd manipulated assets and situations to the Agency's advantage on most of our ops. 

 

Ultimately, nothing mattered except my failure, my most unforgivable misfortune, my greatest fuckup—not saving Jess from her being murdered by Arndt.  Someone I thought was a better man.  Someone who'd be there and love Jessica like she deserved.  But Arndt turned out to be more of a monster than I was.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	5. February 12, 2011—Joan Introduces Herself to John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go downhill for John, fast.

**February 12, 2011**

 

A shoe tapping my left foot woke me up.  I'd slept all night, leaning against a green metal Dumpster.  Standing over me was that same woman wearing the long blue coat.  At first, I didn't see her grocery cart.  I recognized her as the woman I had defended from that gangster wanna-be who'd been harassing her.  When was it?  Was it over a week ago?  It felt more like a year to me.  

 

She reached down and picked up the mostly empty whiskey bottle from the pavement in front of me.  It'd fallen from my hand when I'd passed out.  "Are you alright?  Did you sleep here all night?  It was cold last night!  Somewhere around 9 degrees, you know?"

 

I mumbled at her, "Yeah.  I'm fine."  I was hoping that she'd just move on with her cart and leave me the fuck alone.  I was hung over and didn't want to socialize with anyone.   My body was cold, stiff, and cramped from sleeping curled up outside on hard asphalt. 

 

"Would you like some breakfast?"  She poked around in her cart and pulled out a box of granola bars and an unopened, date-expired bottle of a coffee beverage. 

 

"No thanks."  My stomach wasn't interested in eating anything right then, if ever.  I wasn't sure if she recognized me or not.  I remembered her, though.  I soon realized that she wasn't going to be so easy to get rid of.

 

She walked around her cart, and stood over me.   "Are you sure?  I know a place where we can sit inside and get warm.  Somewhere where they won't throw us out for the price of a coffee."

 

"You know, I'm not really interested.  'M okay.  You can just go on and get some coffee without me."

 

She could see that I was just as stubborn as she was.  She nodded in my direction and started pushing her cart back toward the street.  "Well, if you change your mind..." she said over her shoulder as she left.  I tried to nod back without making my head ache too much.

 

The woman with the cart was too nice for me to just tell her to fuck off.  I only wanted to find a quiet, isolated place where I could plan my slow suicide for Jess in peace.  Even though I realized that I had no idea what I should do next.  Yesterday, I hadn't been able to dig up the money and false IDs as I'd planned to do earlier.  So that meant I wasn't ready to do anything.  I couldn't even ride the subway today.

 

My eyelids felt stuck together, same as they had the morning of the day before; I'd been crying in my sleep again.  Somehow, I struggled to get to my feet, picked up my backpack, threw one of the straps over my left shoulder and walked down the alley way to the street.  I wasn't feeling good at all.  My mind was foggy, and my body was struggling to stay vertical.   The thought quickly went through my brain that I was dealing with hypothermia at some level or other.  But I forgot as soon as I thought it.

 

My stomach hurt like a sonofabitch.  Maybe I did need to eat something, though feeling the way I was, I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep anything down.  Since I'd only been drinking whiskey the last few days and not eating, I was definitely dehydrated and probably was in the beginning stages of starvation.  But I didn't give a shit.  I'd eat if only so I could stay on the move here in the City.

 

I needed to get back to one of my caches, somehow.  Not only did I need money for a shovel or something similar, but I needed the cash so I could get something to eat.  But one depended on the other.  What the fuck.  Maybe I could panhandle my way into some easy spending money?  I didn't even have a hat to pass around.  If I wasn't careful, I could end up passing out on the sidewalk, the way I was weaving down the street.  People were avoiding me, walking as far away from me as they could.  Maybe I already smelled bad.  Or maybe I looked like hell.  I guessed the panhandling idea wasn't going to work right then.

 

Just as I was about to fall down, I felt a hand on my back.  Turning as quick as I could, reaching for a nonexistent gun at my back waistband, there was the woman with the grocery cart.

 

"You look like you're in a bad way son.  Come along with me.  Rest your hand on the top of my cart.  I'll take you somewhere safe where you can rest up."  The intense look in her eyes told me she wouldn't take no for an answer. 

 

Grabbing my right hand, she put in on the top rail of her grocery basket, and slowly started walking, wheeling me along with her.  I tossed my backpack on top of her stuff in the basket so I wasn't weighed down as much. 

 

"What's your name?"  She was talking to me, trying to help me stay conscious.

 

"John."  I was working hard to keep up with her.  If it hadn't been for the support of her cart, I knew I didn't have the strength to walk let alone walk a straight line.

 

"John, you're doing fine.  Just keep walking with me.  It's not far."   She reached out and put her hand over mine, as if she was sharing her strength with me.  “My name is Joan.”  Yes, I really needed her help.  "How long has it been since you've eaten?"

 

It was hard to stay focused to answer her.  I muttered, "I can't remember.  Sorry."  It was difficult for me to walk and talk at the same time; I was watching my feet to miss cracks in the sidewalk that could have tripped me up.  I realized that I was in worse shape than I had first thought.  I was not doing so well at all.

 

She patted my hand, “Just hang on.  Stay with me, John.”  She was doing her best to keep me conscious, keep me with her.  If I had looked up, I would have seen the real concern on her face.

 

After I felt as though we’d been walking for several miles—in actuality it probably was less than a city block's distance—she turned into the doorway of a neglected warehouse, dragging me with her, alongside the grocery basket as we went inside.

 

The relative warmth of the warehouse space hit my face, a shock to my system.  Stumbling over my feet, I almost lost my grip on the cart.  Two bearded men in tattered coats came toward Joan, grabbing me on either side to keep me from falling.  It was as if she had called ahead asking for someone to help.

 

The three of them guided me over to an area that was probably Joan’s camp spot.  Someone put an upside down white plastic bucket under me so I could sit.  I collapsed, almost falling off the seat.  I was fucked up for sure.  This was really not good.  What'd happened to me?

 

Once I was settled to her satisfaction, Joan put her hand on my forehead, in the time honored gesture to see if I had a fever or not.  “Holy shit, John!  You're burning up!”  Joan made sure I wouldn’t fall off the bucket, gesturing to the two guys to brace me, their hands on my shoulders.  She went back to her cart, and began rummaging through her stuff.  It didn’t take her long to find a small package of what looked like two aspirin tablets.  “Here, John, take these, we’ll see if we can get your fever down.”  She looked more worried than she had when we were walking.  I dry swallowed the pills and closed my eyes. 

 

The buzzing noise in my head began to get louder.  When I opened my eyes, I started to see gray mixed with black as my focus narrowed down to just me.  I watched the room close down and disappear; I passed out.  The last thing I heard was Joan yelling, “John!  John!”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	6. February 13 through February 20, 2011—John Falls Ill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is taken care of by Joan and Lucas during his illness.

**February 13 through February 20, 2011**

 

During the next week I wasn’t sure what was happening. I faded in and out of consciousness.  I had no idea where I was, who was watching over me, who was taking care of my bodily functions, who was making sure I didn’t die. 

 

I wanted to stay unconscious—dead to the world.  I wanted to die. My body wanted to die.  My immune system had shut down, pushing me into that dark pit of grief, failure, shame and death. I never wanted to see daylight again. Some kind of contact to Some…One…Some…Thing... or whatever kept me alive.  I didn’t even dream about my guardian angels, I was so out of it.

 

When I was somewhat awake, I would see Joan’s concerned face looking down at me, a cool, damp facecloth in her hands as she was draping it over my hot forehead or sponging the sweat from my skin.  I was too weak to push her away.  I retreated back to my blacked out state.  I just wanted to leave.  I didn’t deserve to live.  I never wanted to see daylight again.

 

The combination of the infected suppurating knife wound in my gut and my heartache about Jess's death had done me in.

 

The time came when I really woke up. I could see the sunlight as it came through the haze of the upper warehouse windows.  The air around me felt cool.  I couldn’t believe that I was still here.  I felt so weak.  My body felt light, shapeless, as if it almost wasn't there…

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 


	7. February 21, 2011—The Fever Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (March 18, 2015: this is a newly added chapter)

**February 21, 2011**

 

As soon as I stirred, Joan and some guy were there looking down at me.  He had on a ragged US Army BDU jacket with a Medic patch stitched on it.  It looked like it was from the Iraq War, back in 2003. Concerned expressions on their faces, they looked relieved that I’d regained consciousness. The medic grabbed my arm and took my pulse.  The woman in the blue coat—I remembered that she told me she was called Joan—she held a bottle of water to my lips for me to drink.  They were dancing around me as if they hadn’t known if I was going to pull through or not.

 

“John!  John!  I’m so glad.  Here, take a sip.”  Still holding the water to my lips, she turned to the medic-guy, “See, I told you he’d make it.  Thank you, Lucas for everything you’ve done.”

 

“He’s not out of the woods yet, Joan. We’re going to have to watch his recovery closely.  He still needs lots of care, especially since that cut on his gut was infected when we first started helping him. It could have been more than touch and go if I hadn’t been able to bring back those antibiotics.  And then again, I’m wondering if he’s lost his will to live.  I used to see this over in Iraq, when the guys I was treating in my unit would come out of their medical crisis and then, for what seemed to be no reason, take a turn for the worst.”

 

“Lucas, you can count on me.  I’m not going to let John…”  She grabbed my shoulder to make sure I was still sipping water. Joan had somehow decided that I was her newest project.  I’d totally forgotten about that knife cut on my gut.  No wonder I felt sore on my lower left side.  After I’d taken a few drinks of water, I felt so tired, it was as though I was being pulled back under, feet first into sleep.

 

“Ok, it looks as though John’s fallen asleep this time instead of passing out.  We finally got him through the fever.  Thanks, Lucas.  I think that sleep is going to be his best medicine for now.  I’ll make sure to be here when he wakes up again.”  That was the last I heard before I submerged into sleep.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	8. February 22, 2011—Chicken Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (March 18, 2015: this is a newly added chapter)

**February 22, 2011**

The next time I woke up, it was dark through the warehouse windows.  Joan had some candles lit nearby.  She came over as soon as I opened my eyes.  "Thank you, Joan."  My throat felt dry, my voice felt dusty and my lips were split.  I hadn't said anything for some time.  She had a metal cup filled with some chicken noodle soup.

 

"Here, John, have a couple sips of this soup. Then, I'll help you get up and maybe you can walk to the bathroom."

 

I was able to stand up, but I was glad she was helping me walk; it'd been a long time.  Lucas just happened to walk up, so he assisted me in the bathroom. I felt like I'd fallen instead of sitting down on the toilet, I was so weak.  At least I was able to attend to my business on my own.  Lucas and I managed to get me back to my bedroll just in time for me to collapse and fall asleep again.

 

Not sure how long I'd been out of commission, the next few days were spent sipping water and being fed chicken noodle soup from Joan's steady hands, as I gained strength.  But along with the strength, my memories, awareness and grief that I hadn't been there for Jess returned.  I wanted to cave in; to return to that blessed unconsciousness, but Joan wouldn't let me.

 

"How long have I been out of it?  How many days? Where's my backpack?"  I was starting to feel agitated, wondering where my belongings had gone.

 

Joan checked me out with a worried look.  "You've been out for about eleven days or so, since I brought you here to the camp.  Your backpack is right here."  She pointed to the wall closest to the mattress I was lying on.  "Lucas and I were worried that you were going to give up the ghost on us.  You kept throwing off the blankets and thrashing while you were feverish."

 

Lucas chimed in with his observations. "Yeah man, you had some serious nightmares.  You were calling out lots of different names, but mostly 'Jessica.'"

 

There was nothing I could have done to stop myself while I was delirious.  I could only sigh awkwardly in response, since everything that had happened was out of my conscious control. 

 

"So what day is it?  What's today?"

 

Lucas answered, "Friday, February 22nd."

 

The last thing I remembered with any clarity was leaving Peter Arndt's place in New Rochelle on Tuesday, February 8th.  I was shocked that I'd been that incapacitated and out of it for so long.  My look of dismay must have shown.  Joan and Lucas both stepped closer, putting their hands on my shoulders to steady me, concern on their faces.  From their expressions, they thought I was more than likely to pass out,  go unconscious again.

 

"John, just stretch out for a minute or so.  You're alright,"  Joan's firm grip helping me to lie back on the mattress.  She lifted the hem of the t-shirt I was wearing to let Lucas check on the knife cut on my belly.

 

"Hey, man.  That knife wound on your gut's healed up OK.  Looks like you're really on the mend.  Just be careful, OK, and don't overdo things, now.  Right?"  Lucas was looking at me pretty intensely, wanting to verify that my recovery was almost complete.   He patted my left shoulder, "My reputation as the "in-house medic" for Joan's camp is depending on you getting better, John, you know?"  I nodded.  I'd learned later from Joan, that Lucas had had a difficult time earlier when the flu had gone through the encampment and a couple of his patients had died.  Some of the homeless folks had been avoiding him ever since.

 

I'd've gone out to get a bottle of whiskey, just to drink myself out of my misery if I hadn't been so weak.  I didn't know which was better—to be out of it because I was sick or drunk.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	9. February 26 through March 13, 2011—John's Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's recovery, nightmares and plans.

**February 26-March 13, 2011**

 

I lost track of the days again as I concentrated my energy, vacillating between recovering and wishing I was dead.   

 

The nights were the worst for me, especially between 1 and 3 AM.  I'd wake up after a couple hours' sleep, feeling all emotionally agitated and terrorized.

 

Some nights, it was my dreams that would disturb my sleep.  I remember one in particular.  I'd just crawled into the blankets after visiting the latrine.  No sooner than I'd fallen asleep, I woke up in a dream.

 

Standing in the middle of Peter Arndt's living room, I have no idea why I'm there.  The house is cold and silent.   The air feels as though the space has been vacant for some time.  I hear a rustling noise in the kitchen, and when I walk through the door, I see Jessica standing at the stove. 

 

"Jess?!  What are you doing here?  I thought... I thought you were... um..."  My voice failed me.  I stood there, looking at her.  I was so grief-stricken, my face felt like it was falling, drooping, melting down off the bones.

 

"Oh, John.  I'm so sorry.  You remember that I'm not alive now?  You know that I'll always love you?"  She reached out to touch my shoulder.   I could feel sparkling energy travel from that spot along my nerves and through the rest of my body down to my feet and out the top of my head.

 

"Jess...  Jess... "  My eyes burned and filled with tears.  I blinked them back, but that didn't stop the tears from flooding my eyes, dripping down my face.  "I tried to get back for you in time.  I tried..."  I caught a breath to stop from sobbing.

 

"I know, John.  I know you did your best.  But I have to go now.  You have to let me go now."  She started to fade away, just like that time in Beijing.

 

"Jess!  Please, don't leave!"  I reached out to her, my hands traveling through the mists of her body.  I felt as though I'd been punched in the gut.  My sobbing woke me up.  My face was wet and I couldn't breathe through my nose.  I couldn't get back to sleep.  I desperately wanted a drink to knock myself out.  I got up off my mattress and stumbled around the warehouse, looking for someone who happened to be awake and had some liquor to share.

 

Joan saw me wandering around the camp intensely looking for something.  I guessed that she suspected I was searching for drugs or alcohol.  "John!  What are you doing up at this hour?  What are you looking for?  You're so pale, you look like you've seen a ghost!"

 

"God, Joan."  My voice was all choked up.  "I could use a drink!  I've just had another one of my nightmares."  I didn't want to tell her about Jess or that I'd had a dream about her.

 

"John, why don't you lie back down?  You still need more rest to recover.  You were seriously sick!  It's been three weeks since your fever finally broke."   

 

"Joan, I think I'm feeling well enough, strong enough now to go out to panhandle tomorrow.  I need some cash to buy food and other stuff."  

 

"Are you sure you want to do that, go out and sit in the cold, John?  Are you sure that you've recovered enough?  Tomorrow is March 14th."

 

"You know, I'm not sure, but that's my plan for now.  I've been sitting around for too long.  I need to begin to get stronger."

 

My plan was to beg for enough spare change to buy a shovel, then take the subway to visit one of my cemetery caches for extra spending money that I'd stashed away.  By this time, my hair and beard had grown quite a bit.  I was counting on this change in my appearance to keep me safe from any of the CIA spooks who might be looking for me.

 

Jesus, I needed a drink.  It looked like I wasn't going to drown my sorrows in alcohol tonight.

 

I wished that God would just stop all my pain.  I lay down, and put my left arm over my face, trying to block out everything around me.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	10. March 14, 2015—Out Panhandling for the First Time

**March 14, 2015**

 

Before I left the warehouse camp for the day, I mentioned to Joan that I was going to go do some panhandling.  She rummaged through her grocery cart and found a hat, and a sign that she'd already written for me that said, "Veteran—Spare Change."  I managed to find a busy street corner at a local park where I could sit on the sidewalk with my hat and sign, watching the traffic go by.  Lucky for me, the rain and snow didn't fall continuously, and the temperature hovered around 40 degrees.  By the time the sun went down, I'd collected about $45.  That was enough to buy a cheap trowel or Army surplus collapsing shovel and a round trip subway ticket out to Queens.   That was one long day for me.

 

On the way back, I stopped to buy a pint of whiskey to drink for the night.

 

By the time I'd returned to the warehouse, Joan met me at the door, taking me by the elbow.  "John!  You've been out all day.  How are you feeling?  Are you all right? You look tired."  I felt like she was bombarding me with questions. 

 

"Yeah, Joan, it was a long day.  Maybe I shouldn't have been out for so long."  I was mumbling, feeling a little hypothermic, glad to be in a sheltered, warmer place.  "I'm glad I had this long wool coat you found for me.  Even though it was sunny and warmer without the snow, there was a crisp breeze, adding to the windchill.  I'm glad to be back here, at home."

 

Once we'd gotten to where her space was, she handed me a mug full of hot tomato soup, and a handful of not-yet-stale saltines in cellophane packets.  She was always watching out for me.  That was the only food I'd had all day.  My pants were starting to hang off my hips, I'd lost so much weight while I'd been ill.  I moved over to my mattress to eat, and after I'd gone to rinse the empty mug, I returned it to Joan, and crawled back into my bedroll.  I was going to leave as soon as the hardware store opened, and head out to the cemetery in Queens the next morning. 

 

I opened the pint liquor bottle.  I'd swallowed about two thirds of the whiskey before I'd fallen asleep—more like I'd passed out.  Not that the alcohol buzz protected me from nightmares.  This time, Stanton showed up. 

 

"Hey, Lover."  The flat tone of her voice sounded as creepy as always.   

 

A shiver shook through me as I reached back for my Jericho 941 handgun, the one that I'd dumped in the harbor at Kaohsiung.   The gun wasn't in my waistband.  In my dream state, I was ready this time to really shoot Kara.  As usual, she was up to no good.  She reached for the button on my pants.  I felt my dick and balls shrink up, huddling so close to my crotch that they felt as though they were hiding for protection by going back into my body.  She was going to try to rape me in my dream.  I grabbed her by the wrist, twisting her in front of me, her arm behind her in a hammerlock.  I wanted to dislocate her shoulder.

 

"Not this time Kara."  I shoved her away from me.  I was prepared to fight her, hand-to-hand.  The longer I talked to her, the colder and more penetrating my voice became.  "Maybe I should have just shot you like Snow ordered me to, when we were in Ordos.   I'm _done_ with your shit.  Just leave me the fuck alone.  Stay out of my dreams!"  Funny, she started to fade out, the more forceful I got.  I ended up standing alone in a silent black room with no windows.  It was so dark, the floor was invisible, and I couldn't see my feet. Then I felt my body falling.  I was slipping through space, finally landing on my bedroll, my body jerking with a hypnagogic dream-twitch.   Thank God, that was the only nightmare I remembered that night.  But even that dream felt like too much—too real to deal with.

 

I woke up in a cold sweat.  My body was damp and clammy.  My head ached and my mouth was dry, too dry to even spit.  My stomach was churning.  I wanted to puke.  Stanton showing up in that nightmare was just too real.  

 

I crawled up out of my heap of blankets and made my way back to the men's latrine.  I just made it before I puked up bile.  My stomach was empty.  Hanging on to the wall of the stall as I leaned over the toilet, I dry heaved a couple of times.  I tried not to faint and fall head first into the porcelain throne.  When I was done, I managed to make it to one of the sinks, so I could rinse my mouth and face with cold water.  Lucas just happened to show up.  Maybe not by coincidence.  

 

"Hey, man.  You doin' OK?  It sounded like you were havin' some trouble in here for a while."  He put a hand on my left shoulder.  "Geez, your shirt is almost soaking wet from sweat, John!"  He checked to see if I was feverish, if I had relapsed back into that sickness.  "Come on.  Let's get you back to your bedroll.  You'll feel better when you get warmed up and get some more rest."  

 

I was feeling somewhat better, so Lucas and I made it back to my mattress that was sitting on the concrete floor with hardly any trouble.  I felt relieved, knowing that he was checking up on me, making sure that I was OK.  I got myself situated under my bedding.  He came back with an unopened plastic bottle of water.   Joan had probably given it to him for me. 

 

"Here, keep this close by, so you can stay hydrated.  All that vomiting can mess you up."  Lucas took a second look to be sure I was going to stay put, do what he said.  As I closed my eyes, I could hear his footsteps retreating, as he made his way back upstairs to his campsite.

 

The rest of the night was uneventful, which was fine by me.  I was able to sleep soundly with no further nightmares or other bullshit.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

 


	11. March 15, 2011—John's Spy-Cache

**March 15, 2011**

The noise and conversation of the encampment residents getting up and getting ready for their day's activities woke me up.  I had thought I'd be up earlier, before daylight, but judging from my dry mouth and hangover, my getting up sooner than dawn didn't happen today.

 

Crawling out of my blankets, I went to the mens' latrine to take a leak, wash my face and see how presentable I was going to be on the subway.   I'd made it this far without my former employers locating me.  It wasn't in my plans to let them do their black-bag-over-my head-and-kill-me routine.  I wanted to die my own way.  I wanted to die in such a way as to honor Jessica and her sacrifice.

 

After I asked Lucas if he knew of a local Army-Navy store, I'd gone and purchased an army surplus entrenching shovel with the money from my panhandling the day before.

 

I took the subway out to the Maple Grove Cemetery in the Kew Gardens district of Queens.  The cemetery was close by a subway stop, so that made it easy for me to get out there to dig up one of my money and weapons caches.  With the past days' rain and snow, the ground was moist, and easy to dig.  I stashed my shovel in the black canvas backpack that I'd had with me during the trip back to the States.  I hid it at the base of a shrub, not too close to my target cache.  I just had to wait until the cover of darkness.  I checked out the neighborhood, and found a thriving community of East Indian immigrants. 

 

With barely enough cash left over for some curry, I found a place called _Pooja's Restaurant_ , where they reluctantly sat me in the back, near the kitchen.  I think my homeless appearance could have put them off.  I ordered some dal and garlic naan.   The large portion they served me tasted exceptionally good as well as authentic—it had just the right combination of seasonings.  The young woman who waited on me seemed surprised when I left her an unexpected, though modest, tip.

 

Walking back on the street, I made my way towards the cemetery, taking my time as I waited for sunset.  I was waiting for it to get dark enough so my surreptitious digging wouldn't be discovered or observed.

 

With some searching, I managed to find an alley closeby where I could take a nap, pulling my long woolen coat around me to retain most of my body heat.

 

When I woke up, it was pitch dark.  I pulled myself off the pavement in the corner where I’d been sleeping and stumbled, at first, toward the street.  There was some traffic at this hour, but for the most part, it wasn’t the same volume as earlier.  Checking my wristwatch, it was 2345 hours.  

 

I was stiff after sleeping outside on the cold ground again.  After I'd reached the sidewalk, outside the alley entrance, I rolled my shoulders to loosen them up as I started walking.   

 

By the time I got to the Maple Grove Cemetery, located the shovel in its carry-bag under the nearby shrub, according to my watch, it was O-dark 20 hours—after midnight.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my friend, Leonard Chiarelli (who grew up in Brooklyn), who told me about the changes in the Kew Gardens area of Queens and how the local community is now made up mostly of people from India.
> 
> Thanks to blacktop for her "The Pooja Tales" series that gave me the idea for John to stop by Pooja's Restaurant.


	12. March 16, 2011—Queens Valley Playground

**March 16, 2011**

I was able to find my cache location that was on the north side of one of the taller monuments.  Choosing a northern location meant that the sun wasn’t going to scorch the disturbed sod and later reveal the location of my activities.  Carefully removing the grass to minimize anyone noticing the spot where I’d stored my gear, it didn’t take me long to dig down the foot and a half to reach my sealed box.  I decided to leave the crate and re-bury it, maybe have it in reserve for another time I might need it.  I put the cash, passports, and other false IDs and a handgun. extra clips, and ammo, in my backpack that I’d used to carry the shovel.  Then, I carefully replaced the soil over the empty box that was protected from moisture and dirt by a thick black trash sack, and re-set the squares of grass.  I was counting on the predicted rain later that day to help keep the disturbed sod moist enough so that it would quickly grow back.

 

My work completed, I started wandering over to the Queens Valley Playground I’d noticed was nearby.  I found the swings and sat down in the dark, putting that backpack close by where I could keep an eye on it.  I started swinging back and forth in the cold blackness with my feet on the ground.  I was thinking of Jessica, and the life we could have had; family, kids, that sailboat, our trip around the world that we'd planned during our vacation in Mexico.  My chest began to ache with longing and grief.  I started to cry again, sobbing, thinking of everything that we could have had.  The life and family Jessica and I…  Now there was no chance for that happening.  We could have had kids who would have loved to sit on a backyard swing set, Jess and I pushing them as they laughed and sang out, “Mommy!  Daddy!  Push me higher!  I wanna go higher!  I can see the _world_ from here!”  I put my face in my hands and cried convulsively, my body wracked with the force of my heartache.  It was just too much for me to bear. 

 

Yes, it was past midnight, almost 0130 hours, but I noticed a couple of police squad cars periodically cruising the edges of the park.  I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my coat.  Making sure I attracted no attention, I picked up my loaded backpack, slung it over my shoulder and made my way back to the subway entrance I’d come from earlier yesterday. 

 

I had no idea where I should spend the rest of the night.  The thought came to me, since I was able to sleep in that alley near Pooja's with some degree of safety, I went back to that location instead of sleeping while I rode the subway.  I decided to hole up and bivouac in that alley there.

 

The sun’s light and relative warmth woke me up.  I made my way back to the subway and headed back to that neighborhood in the Bronx.  There was one small part of me that wondered what drew me back, when I had all of New York City to hide in.  And yet, the encampment with Joan had started to feel like home.  So far, I could count on safety and comfort there.

 

Before I went back to the abandoned warehouse, I bought another pint of cheap whiskey and some fresh fruits and vegetables and other groceries to share with Joan, Lucas and some of the others.  Since I had some money from my cache, I also stopped at the neighborhood hardware store and bought an inexpensive one burner propane stove so Joan could do some simple cooking.

 

I'd already scouted out a place to hide my pieces of identification, weapons and cash money in a safe hole I'd made earlier in a corner of a wall on one of the upper floors of warehouse.  That would keep everything safe, more so than they would be if they were on my person.

 

Joan greeted me at the door, an anxious look on her face.  “John!  John!  Where have you been?!"  She reached out and grabbed me by my right elbow.  "I was so worried that you’d been mugged or something bad had happened to you."  She was agitated and distressed.  "You were gone for almost two days.  Lucas and I…well, I was really worried about you, son.”  She grabbed me by my upper arm, and was dragging me into her area.

 

“No, I’m OK, Joan.  I had to run an errand for myself, that’s all.  Here.”  I'd already pocketed my pint liquor bottle, hiding it from her.  I showed her the plastic grocery bags.  “Some food for you and Lucas and some of the others.  I found this simple stove for you, so you can more easily cook a hot meal once in a while.”

 

“Oh, Dear.  You know you don’t have to do anything for us.”  Joan patted me on the shoulder, a thankful look on her face.

 

“Yeah, I know, and you still need to eat, don’t you?  Plus you've been feeding more people here besides yourself, Lucas and me.”

 

“True, that’s true.” She somewhat reluctantly took the groceries and piled them next to her grocery cart.  I took the burner-stove out of its box and got it set up with the small propane canister.

 

“Come on, John, let’s put together something together for our dinner.”

 

She somehow fished out a couple of saucepans, and started sorting through her basket, figuring out what to cook for us to eat that night.

 

I went looking for Lucas, and handed him a hundred dollars in twenty dollar bills.   “Here, man.  This is to thank you…”

 

He pushed my hand away, refusing the money.  “You don’t have to pay me back, John.”

 

“Lucas, please.  You can use this to help others here in the homeless camp if they run into trouble like I did.  Go ahead.  Please."  I looked him in the eye as I pleaded.  "Just take the money, man.” 

 

He stopped and looked closely at me, he saw that I was only thinking of him helping others down the line.  It was only after that that he gratefully took the bills.

 

“Okay, John, but just consider this, that I’ll be paying it forward.”

 

I nodded my head in understanding.

 

We gripped each other by the shoulder in agreement.

 

After dinner, for whatever reason, I forgot to put myself to sleep with my pint of whiskey.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	13. March 17, 2011—St. Patrick's Day

**March 17, 2011**

 

St. Patrick’s Day. 

 

Although I assumed that the rest of New York City was going to be busy with wearing green to avoid being pinched, drinking gallons of green beer, and watching the famous parade downtown, I noticed that those of us in our warehouse camp were doing what they always did.  We woke up and got ready to do what we did every day—try our best to keep body and soul together panhandling, Dumpster diving and whatever else helped to keep us alive.

 

I decided to stay close to the warehouse camp today.  Joan was still anxious that I’d been away for longer than she expected.  After my illness and recovery, she was still concerned about my health.   I knew that I couldn’t continue to hole up there indefinitely.  I thought I’d wait until most of the other homeless were gone and talk about my situation with her, so we could come to an understanding that I probably wasn’t going to be there consistently.  She wanted to keep an eye on me, but I knew that I had to go out and be alone for a while.

 

“Joan, you know I can take care of myself now?”

 

“Yes, but John, you almost died!”

 

I wanted to reassure her that I was better now, on the mend and improving. 

 

“I know, Joan.  I’m feeling healthier, stronger.  But I have things I need to do on my own.  That doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate what you and Lucas have done for me.  You know that?”

 

“I’m not sure I trust that you have your own best interests at heart, John.  You know some of what you said when you were feverish has me worried.  You kept talking about how you wanted to die.”

 

I couldn’t lie to her, but I didn’t want to tell her the truth, that she was right.  I did want to die.  Life meant nothing to me now. 

 

“You’ll just have to trust me, Joan.  I can take care of myself.”

 

She looked me straight in the eye, a dubious look on her face.

 

“I understand that.  I just want you to know that you always have a place here at the warehouse, a place where you can be safe.” 

 

She reached out and clutched my arm, trying to convince me that there were other options.

 

“I know that you have had some kind of tragedy that has thrown you for a loop.  I don’t want you to make a choice that will be all too permanent.  I want you to know that at least one person...  That I care if you live or die.  I can see that about you.  There is something dark, some kind of misery that haunts you.”

 

I reached out and hugged her.  I was at a loss for words.  Here we’d just met weeks ago, and I already felt that she genuinely cared about me, as if she was another mother to me.

 

I knew that if I was going to follow through with my plan, I couldn’t stay.  And at the same time, I couldn’t leave right away, either.

 

By the time she’d gathered her stuff into the grocery cart and got ready to leave on her rounds, I promised her I’d stay for the day.  I decided that I’d go buy myself another larger bottle of cheap whiskey and settle in at the warehouse, spending my time getting and staying drunk.

 

Joan was right.  I was a danger to myself.  From past experience and observation, I knew that people who were suicidal often showed no outward signs of the depths of their grief and self loathing.  My situation was different, though.  I'd given away my plans, my desire for suicide, while I was ill and unconscious.  Joan and Lucas and probably others within hearing distance already knew I wanted to be dead.  I _had_ to leave the warehouse homeless camp, get away from Joan, Lucas and the others to make sure I actually killed myself.

 

* * * * * * *

Later that day, I had to go out and get more whiskey.  This time I got two more large bottles, adequate to poison myself if I drank it quickly enough.  In the late afternoon, I ended up blacking out on my mattress.  

 

Jessica came to me in a dream.  She found me lying on my back, one of the bottles resting on my chest, tucked close by my left arm.  

 

"John!  John!  Wake up! PLEASE!"  She urged me to get up off my ass in my sleep.  "You've got to wake up! You can't lie on your back, you'll choke yourself."

 

"Jess, it's OK.  I'm alright.  I'll get to be with you sooner this way."  In my mind, I could just lie there, lethargic and apathetic.

 

"NO!"  She was yelling.  "Come on!  JOHN!"  I could feel her grab me by the wrists and try to pull me up off the mattress.  It was the touch of her hands that woke me up.

 

My eyes opened and started watering.  My stomach surged, waves of cramps gripping my guts.  I knew that I had to get up as quickly as I could to make it to the latrine before I heaved, before I made a mess of puke all over my mattress and blankets.  I rested my hands on the toilet seat as I vomited up most of the second bottle of whiskey I'd swallowed.  My stomach heaved until I was retching bile, the bottom of my guts.  My face was wet, my eyes were damp with tears, my body clammy with cold sweat, my knees felt rubbery.  I rinsed my mouth and dashed warm water on my face at the bathroom sink.  Then, I tried not to crawl on my hands and knees.  I wobbled my way back to my bedroll, uncoordinatedly pulled the blankets over me and fell asleep on my left side.  Somehow, I remembered what Jess had said, not to lie on my back.  She didn't want me to die by sucking my vomit into my lungs.  If she hadn't shown up in my dream, I could have died that afternoon.  

 

Why did Jess come to me in that dream and wake me up?  I thought she had told me she was gone.  After all, she'd come to me before to say goodbye.

 

I was in a deep sleep when Joan and the others came back.  Their usual sounds and conversations did not wake me up.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	14. March 18, 2011—A Visit To Manhattan

**March 18, 2011**

 

Woke up really early today, before dawn.  The warehouse camp was quiet with the sounds of others breathing or snoring gently.  Joan was wrapped up in her blankets, sleeping the peaceful sleep of the kindhearted, her grocery cart nearby.  There was no light coming through the windows; it was "O-dark-30."

 

I got up with my usual stealth and went to the latrine to relieve myself, brush my teeth and wash my face.  Looking in the mirror, I saw a man with longish starting-to-turn salt and pepper hair.  My beard was getting longer, hiding my face.  But it didn’t hide my haggard look or my tired eyes.  I didn’t recognize myself.  My pants continued to hang loosely from my hip bones.  I still hadn’t gained the weight back from my recent sickness.

 

By the time I got back to my mattress, I knew I had to leave the homeless camp before Joan or any one else woke up who would or could stop me.  I managed to silently go upstairs to my cache of money and take out some bills to have with me for the rest of the time I was gone from the warehouse.  I wasn’t planning on panhandling this time while I was gone.

 

Returning to my spot, I found some scrap paper and a pencil on the concrete floor, and wrote a note for Joan, explaining that I probably would not return for a few days.  I put on my long coat before going out into the cold clear darkness outside, then I walked to the nearest subway stop to ride the trains through the city.  I'd no plans, no place to go other than to stay warm while I was away from the abandoned warehouse. 

 

I transferred from subway line to line with no direction in mind.  By midmorning, my stomach was making noises that were too loud to ignore.  The other passengers paid me minimal attention for the most part, but I could tell by their furtive glances at me that they heard the growling sounds from my gut.  It was time to leave the subway for a while and find something, someplace to eat.

 

I got off at the next stop, which was at Lexington and 59th St.  After climbing the steps, I found myself in Manhattan, the sky was overcast, maybe planning to rain, maybe not.   One of those usual iffy weather days in The City.  I quickly managed to locate a street cart selling coffee and pastries, and bought myself a large cup of black coffee and a doughnut.  Despite yesterday’s experience with the whiskey, my stomach felt settled. 

 

Walking south, toward downtown, I ate my doughnut between sips of coffee.  My eyes were scanning the area around me—my usual habit.  I noticed that I was invisible as I walked down the street, people walked quickly around me, eyes downcast, avoiding looking at me or otherwise self-absorbed.  Tossing the empty paper cup in a trash bin, I started walking closer to the buildings, guarding one side of my body.  My direction veered toward Rockefeller Center.  By the time I got to Avenue of the Americas, the crowds around me were walking faster than I was.  My habitual eye-scan of my surroundings probably saved my ass.

 

About a half block down from me, I saw Mark Snow and a couple of other CIA spooks in dark suits coming out of one of the department stores.  Snow turned in my direction as he was talking with them, gesturing enough so I could get a glimpse of his handgun tucked into the side waistband of his trousers as his suit jacket swung out away from his body.  I turned away from them, slumping in a typical homeless posture to disguise my height, hiding my face, just in case.

 

So The Company was here in The City.  They were, as Stanton would say, in “enemy territory.”  Legally, they weren’t even supposed to be in the US on an op.

 

Were they looking for me, or on some other assignment?  There was no way I wanted them to discover me, especially Mark Fucking Snow.  I wanted to stay dead as far as he was concerned.  Although I wanted to die for Jess, I did NOT want to die at Snow's hands, not by his plans.

 

I found a recessed doorway that was blank, not part of a storefront, and watched them, half of my body obscured by the corner of the building.  I wanted to make sure that they were headed away from me. 

 

After I observed them moving off down the street in a southerly direction, my body slumped even more.  I felt sweat break out on my forehead.  I sagged in relief.  That was _too_ close.  I had to sit down somewhere, and I didn’t want to sit on the sidewalk right there by that building.  I mentally collected my grit and made my way to the north, starting to fall into my usual pattern of back tracking, watching my six, and turning corners to avoid being tailed.

 

Since I needed to sit down, the quickest, easiest way was to find a subway entrance, get on one of the lines, sit and ride in warmth and comparative safety, hiding in the crowds of riders.  Man, I had to have a drink after that scare.  I could've been made.

 

By late afternoon I decided to leave the subway.  I walked up and out of the exit with the crowds who were headed home from work.  I was totally alone, surrounded by people.

 

I found myself back in Queens, although not in the same area I’d been to before, when I was digging up my cache in that graveyard.  I started walking, looking for a possible place to spend the night.  Even though I had enough cash on me for a cheap motel, I decided I should spend the night outdoors again.  I just needed to find someplace safe, where I could huddle with my whiskey bottle and sleep.  I started looking for a warehouse district where I could find an abandoned truck trailer, or maybe sleep under a loading dock.  But first, I had to buy my pint of whiskey.

 

I had to walk a few blocks to find a store that sold alcohol.  After I bought my pint and something to eat, I started scouting for an industrial area, where I would be able to find some sheltered place where I could camp out for the night.  It took me maybe an hour’s walking to find what I was looking for.  My spy skills came in handy as I easily managed to break into a shed at the edge of a truck warehouse.  This sleeping situation was much warmer than sleeping on pavement behind a Dumpster in an alleyway out in the open air.

 

I settled in for the night, eating the sandwiches I’d bought between sips of whiskey.  Tonight, I hoped there would be no dreams.  Especially, no dreams of Mark F-ing Snow.

 

Now that I was solo, I had some quiet time and space to contemplate some appropriate ways for me to kill myself and join Jessica.  Although on second thought, even though I'd really like to be with Jess, after everything I'd done—and NOT done—I was too late to save Jess from being murdered by her husband—and I'd killed so many people under the guise of protecting my country from terrorists, that I knew I didn't deserve to join Jess in her part of Heaven.  The monster I'd become only deserved that darkest pit of Hell, where even God forgot those who were sent there.

 

I started crying again when I realized that there was no way I'd ever see Jess again, in the next life, or forever.  My tears turned into sobs.  I couldn't even drink my whiskey as my body shook with my grief and regret.  Forgotten by God.  My life was hopeless.  I felt the darkness of my life and the evil things I'd done cover and surround me.  I had to find some way quicker than drinking myself to death.  Everything, everyone I knew, everyone's life I'd touched had been ruined beyond repair...because of me.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	15. March 19, 2011—Inevitable Snow

**March 19, 2011**

 

Snow had another mission for me.

 

“John, here’s your next assignment: you are to infiltrate your former Delta Special Forces unit.  Based on intel, we suspect that there’s a double agent who is informing the Afghani _Al Qaeda_ about the movements of the Delta Force teams.  Two teams have met unexpected resistance that could not have happened without some insider information passed along to the opposition.  I want you to go in alone and hunt down and eliminate this sleeper.  With your familiarity and Special Forces background, you should be able to figure out who the mole is with no trouble.”

 

This was back in 2007.  This time I was to pretend that I was a new recruit for the unit that had been my home in the military for years.  I was to discover who was selling out my old teammates to certain death.  It was hard enough for our Special Forces teams to successfully infiltrate, then follow up with hostage extractions and rescues without some asshole endangering the whole unit and the op by betraying them to the enemy.

 

“Don’t forget that you’re going in as a NOC—you’re all alone and no one’s coming to save you.  If you’re caught, you are shit out of luck.”  Snow had a way of showing his complete disregard for me when it came to the ops he handled.  Especially my assignments.  He usually threw me to the wolves.

 

Lucky me.  For this assignment, I was already one of the wolves.

 

But before I officially signed up and began the op, there was the usual ritual with Stanton and Snow.  Ever since meeting up with them back in 2006, both of them tried their best to push my boundaries, to manipulate me into a position where they could use me for their own sexual gratification.  As if it wasn’t enough to use sexual coercion against their targets to extract intel.  For whatever reason, I managed to escape their sexual intimidation and stay clean until 2009, with my body untouched by their gross sexual bullying.  My mind, on the other hand was a different matter.  Psychically, they had managed to keep me cowed during my whole tenure with those two.

 

Somehow, this time, I was alone with Snow.  “Come on John.  All you have to do is drop trou and bend over for me.  You’re going to _love_ having my cock up your ass.”

 

He stood there in the hotel room.  He was stroking his dick with his lubed right hand as it stuck out from the fly of his pants.  There was no way in hell he was going to convince me that this encounter was in any way going to turn out to be pleasurable for me.

 

I stepped away from him, but not far enough or soon enough.  He grabbed me by my right arm so hard, I was sure he was going to dislocate my shoulder.

 

And then I popped out of the nightmare.  I wasn’t so lucky to escape Snow as I had earlier that day in downtown Manhattan.  Sometime near 0100 hours Snow _did_  manage to show up in one of my nightmares, that asshole.  I guess my evasive maneuvers didn't work for that kind of dream-torture.

 

I had fallen asleep on my right side against the shed wall, constricting the circulation on that shoulder, causing it to cramp like a sonofabitch.  That was the pain that woke me up and kicked me out of that fucked up dream with Snow.

 

I was sweating and miserable.  Was there no way that I could escape Snow or Stanton or find any relief from my past?  Apparently not.  The combination of alcohol and despair made it a sure thing in my mind; I was destined to never leave that gloom.  I decided I might as well embrace it and take my suicide plans to the next, permanent level.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOC—An agent under "non-official cover." Pronounced "nok." http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Non-official_cover
> 
> John's Special Forces infiltration mission (when he was with the CIA) takes place in 2007. See Season 03 episode 10: "The Devil's Share."


	16. March 20, 2011—Implementing My Permanent Solution

**March 20, 2011**

 

 

The next morning, my bladder woke me up.  No doubt, I had to take a leak.  Opening the shed door to see what the sky looked like, I saw that there was activity around the loading dock area.  I stood behind the shed and took a piss close to the building without being detected by anyone nearby.

 

This was the day.  This was the day I decided to complete my self-imposed mission.  This was the day I planned to finish the assignment I’d started months ago in Morocco, when Jess'd called me that time when I was in Tétouan.

 

This was the day I planned to finalize my life.

 

I got back on the same train I'd ridden in on the day before, and surveyed several stops and found a more or less out of the way place where I didn’t observe many people getting on or off the rail line.  I stood out of the field of view of the subway transit police so I could watch the movement of people, hour by hour.  I wanted to choose the right time for me to synchronize my jump off the platform in front of the oncoming train.  I wanted to pick the right moment when nobody would interfere and haul me away from the tracks.  I wanted to make sure I died.

 

There was no reason for me to worry about eating.  I still had a small amount of whisky in that pint bottle, but there was no reason for me to keep drinking.  I swallowed what was left in two gulps and dropped the empty in one of the trash bins on the platform.  I waited until 0200 hours, when I could be guaranteed that there would be a minimum number of people around who would be paying attention for someone like me.  Someone with suicidal plans.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	17. March 21, 2011—Suicide By Subway

**March 21, 2011**

 

Sitting on one of the benches that paralleled the subway tracks, I watched the trains go by.  I sat there, my body slumped in that long coat Joan had given me.  I had no energy to feel anything other than hopeless and in the pits.  From sheer, deeply rooted habit, my mind was timing the frequency and patterns of the trains as they stopped and went by.  I was ready to make my move to throw myself in front of the subway lead car, right as it ran past the platform.

 

 

Just as I'd made my final decision, and was ready to walk over to the edge, the pay phone closest to me began to ring.  There was an "Out of Order" sign stuck to the front of it.

 

It continued to ring.  And ring and ring and ring. 

 

Who the fuck was it ringing for?  There was nobody but me there on the platform!  I tried to ignore it, but somehow the ringing got louder and more insistent.  Maybe it was because my senses were on edge, so it seemed as though the ringing sounds were increasing in volume?

 

Then, the ringing stopped.  For a little less than a minute, and then the ringing started again.  It refused to stop.

 

I was _still_ the only person at that location.  If I didn't know better, I would have sworn that the phone was ringing for me.  But how could it be _this_ pay phone, by  _this_  bench, at  _this_  subway stop? 

 

Finally, I got off the bench and went to answer the damned telephone, knowing for sure that it was a crank call.

 

"Hello?"

 

"John.  It's Jessica."  I about pissed myself when I heard her voice.  "John.  Please listen to me.  I know that you are hurting.  I know that your heart is broken."  I wanted to hang up the phone, slam it down so hard that it would have broken the switch hook, or tipped the phone off its stand.

 

"Jess.  Is that really you?"  My throat scratched as though I was talking through sandpaper.  "Jess..."  I couldn't go on.  I knew it was her.  She was the only one I knew whose voice sounded so sweet and loving.  My Jess.  My throat constricted, I could feel my face clench in despair.  My eyes filled with tears, and my heart felt like it had dropped to the floor, aching and bloody.

 

"John, Sweetheart.  Please.  Please know that I'll always love you.  Please.  Don't do this thing.  Please.  Know that you are never alone, that I'm always with you.  You still deserve to live a good life.  Please remember I'm always with you.  I'll always love you.  And know that I have forgiven you, I'll always forgive you no matter what."

 

I was shielding my eyes with my left hand, trying to hide my face from the subway station as I was crying silently.  I wanted to fall to the ground with my arms over my head.  "Jess." I choked out.  "I can't do this.  You know I can't go on this way, without you.  You know I have to pay for not being there for you when you needed me the most."

 

I was ready to end her call right then, and meet the next train precisely, dead on.

 

As I was starting to hang up, I felt a warm hand rest on my left shoulder.  I hadn't heard him approach, I'd been too busy with Jess's phone call from Heaven.  I turned and there was one of the Transit Cops.  "Hey.  I've been watching you all night.  Are you OK?"  By the look on his face, I could tell that he knew what I was up to.  That he knew why I'd been there on that bench.

 

"How did you get that phone call?  That phone hasn't been working!  I reported that it was broken weeks ago!  Come on over to the Transit stand with me."   

 

He took the receiver from my hand and hung up the phone.  He kept talking quietly as we were walking.  

 

"How would you like something to eat?  By the look of you, I'd say you haven't eaten all day, or maybe for a couple of days?  I've got an extra sandwich or two in my lunchbox at the transit station office over there."  

 

He wouldn't take no for an answer.  He grabbed me by the arm and was pulling me along with him in a friendly sort of way.  I couldn't speak, I could only grunt.  He made no comments about my tear stained face or red-rimmed eyes. 

 

"My name's Andrew Murphy.  What's your name?"

 

"John."

 

"Well, John, I've seen a lot of folks like you, who have plans to commit suicide on the subway tracks.  Sometimes all you need is for someone to reach out a helping hand, and an ear that'll listen.  Come on with me.  We can sit in my office for a while.  It's warmer in there than it is out on the platform."

 

I went with him, ate one of his tuna sandwiches.  Then he offered me a second one, insisting that I eat that one, too.  We sat together for hours as he worked.  Andrew didn't ask any questions, or force me to say anything.  Most of the rest of that night, we sat there in friendly silence.

 

When his shift ended, he reached out to shake my hand.

 

"John, let me be sure that you get home, or to a safe place.  Is there anything I can do?"  He gave my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze.

 

"Thanks, Andrew.  I'm feeling a little better.  I'll just take the train back to this place up in the Bronx where I've been staying."

 

He made sure I got on the train safely. 

 

I soon found myself at the top of that same subway stop near Joan's warehouse encampment.  It was just after dawn.  I made my way back through the warehouse door, and found my mattress bedroll.  I just threw myself down to sleep, leaving my coat on, and not caring if I undressed or not.  I was back home with Joan.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrew Murphy is the Transit Cop who witnessed Caleb Phipps' brother Ryan's fatal subway accident in S02ep11, 2-Pi-R.


	18. March 22, 2011—Clearing Up Loose Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [March 18, 2015--Sorry, but I just discovered two chapters (7 and 8) that I left out. I was wondering where all of my writing about Lucas had gone... :P You nice readers may want to go back to re-read the beginning? ]

**March 22, 2011**

 

Not much for me to report for today's activities.

 

By the time I woke up, everyone but Joan had gone out to do what they always did for daily activities.  Joan, for some reason, stayed behind to watch over me, even though it was around 1330 hours—early afternoon.

 

I rolled off my mattress, took off my coat, and headed for the latrine.  When I returned to my spot, Joan had on her long blue coat, and had moved one of the empty white plastic 5 gallon paint buckets to sit on over by the side of the mattress.  She had two paper cups of steaming black coffee waiting—one for her and one for me. I guessed that she had gone out to pick them up from one of the street coffee carts that were popping up closer to the warehouse. 

 

She sat on the white bucket and I took a spot on the mattress, stretching my legs out in in front of me as I leaned against the wall.  "Here, John, here's a cup of coffee for you to wake yourself up."

 

"Thanks, Joan.  Thank you for watching out for me."  I breathed in the scent of freshly made coffee and took a small sip, just in case it was too hot to drink.  I didn't want to burn my mouth.

 

"I'm glad you made your way back here from your errands, John.  I'm glad you are back here and safe.  You know I worry about you a lot, don't you?"

 

"Yeah, Joan.  Thank you.  I know you care.  But you know I've been needing more alone time?"

 

I was glad that she didn't pry into what I'd been doing, to what I'd been thinking and what I'd planned but was unable to complete.  If that had happened, I wouldn't have been sitting on that mattress, having a cup of coffee, talking with Joan.

 

"I'm thinking that I'm going to spend more of my time away.  I'll probably be out panhandling, then riding the subway to stay warm."

 

Joan reached out and patted my right hand. "I'll keep your spot for you, so you'll always have this camp to come back to, OK?"

 

"Thanks, Joan."  I touched her on her left arm to reassure her.  Sometimes I'm such a fuckin' liar.  "I'll be hanging around for at least today, and maybe tomorrow.  Let me now if there's anything that I can do to help you."  

 

"No, John.  I'm fine for now.  I'm going to go out to see how the world has been doing without me watching to be sure it's been behaving itself."  She smiled, then turned to get her grocery cart to wheel it out on the street for the rest of the afternoon.

 

Alone again, I decided to open that black backpack I'd brought with me and see what was inside.  I hadn't looked through my stuff since before I'd arrived in New York.  I'd forgotten what I had stashed inside.

 

There were the maps and schedules of the Chinese trains, some clothing and underwear, an empty gun magazine that I'd forgotten to throw along with the Jericho into the harbor in Taiwan, and, at the very bottom, the burner phone I'd purchased early on in Beijing, before Stanton and I'd gone to Ordos. 

 

I had taken photos while I was on the _Maersk Majestic_ , hoping to share them with Jess when I met her at the time I'd arrived in New Rochelle.  All those photos of dolphins swimming before the bow of the ship, our ship's kitchen, barbecues and picnics on the deck, and the part of the trip as the ship crossed through the lush landscape of the Panama Canal. 

 

All of those photos became worthless to me in that instant.  In fact, they were probably more dangerous to me now, because they could be used as evidence of my return to the States, evidence that I was still alive.

 

Opening the phone, I took out the battery, memory and SIM cards, threw the device to the floor and stomped on it repeatedly.  It was in pieces, totally destroyed.  I felt like crying for Jess again, as I picked up the pieces, policing the area, and then put all the debris in one of the nearby trash bins.

 

I sat down on my mattress and cradled my left hand over my face, breathing hard, sighing, trying not to cry again.

 

I had to go out and buy some more alcohol to drink.  My pain and grief about not showing up on time for Jess never ended.

 

I put my long coat back on, and walked to a different nearby liquor store for a 750 ml bottle of cheap rye whiskey, came back to the warehouse to sit, drink and try not to think about Jess.

 

Soon the time came for Joan and the others to filter back to the camp for the night.  They could tell I was pretty drunk, so they let me alone.  I'd moved my mattress closer to the wall, so I could sit propped up, my eye on everyone and my surroundings.  My spy-op training was ingrained down to my bones.

 

I wanted—no _needed_ —to figure out another way to die.  But right now, a slow death by alcohol seemed to be the easiest, simplest way for me to go.  Besides right then, I couldn't think of some other ways through my drunken-hazed brain.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	19. March 23 Through April 28, 2011—Night Train

**March 23 Through April 28, 2011**

 

Today I woke up with a hangover.  I realized that the first day of spring had gone by three days earlier, on Sunday March 20th, while I was underground at that subway station, planning and waiting to throw myself from the platform.  The weather in The City was going to start to get better, the sunny days growing longer. But in contrast, I felt my emotional outlook growing more gloomy.  All I wanted to do was retreat into my inner darkness and suffering. I knew that grim outcome I was looking for was all I truly deserved.

 

I lurched up from my mattress and went to the latrine to take a piss, relieve myself and clean up.

 

When I returned, Joan was there at my mattress-spot.  "What are your plans for today, John?"

 

"I'm going to spend a while away from our warehouse encampment, Joan.  I plan on coming back.  Could you save my spot?"

 

"Sure, John.  You know I will.  Be careful out there." She reached out to take my upper arm, her forehead was creased with concern.  "You know I'm worried about you.  I have the feeling you aren't telling me everything about what you've been doing while you've been gone away from the camp."

 

I tried to reassure her, probably not very effectively, though.  "Don't you worry about me, Joan, I'll be all right.  You'll see.  I managed to look her in the eye, lies in my mind and on my lips.

 

Checking my whiskey bottle from last night, I noticed that there was only a half inch of liquid left.  I'd gotten pretty drunk.

 

* * * * * * *

Today began my more than month-long residence on the subways.  I rode to stay sheltered, warm and hidden.  I stayed on the subways to increase if not maintain my level of depression and misery.  I passed my nights underground to stay drunk and avoid my dreams of Jess.  I spent the weeks down there to avoid having to answer to Joan and Lucas.

 

I'd leave the trains to use the subway restrooms and to go up to the surface to buy pint bottles of whiskey I could keep in my coat pocket to maintain my drunken alcohol saturation.  I'd randomly transfer among the subway lines, hoping I'd stay off any surveillance—either cameras or transit police.  I didn't need to steal or panhandle just yet.  I still had some reserves of cash from the cache I'd unearthed earlier.

 

Most of the time, I'd be sitting on the hard seats, swaying with the motion of the car on the tracks.  If the car became crowded at rush hour, I'd stand and offer my seat to women, especially those with children in tow or pregnant.  I'd stand, hanging on to the hand holds or stainless poles, erratically swaying in my inebriated state, doing my best to balance and not to fall on anyone.

 

During my time spent during all of my travels underground, I couldn't dodge my memories of Jess.  I couldn't lose my feelings of anger and resentment about the abuse I'd experienced when I was with the Agency, and from those assholes Stanton or Snow.  Dammit.  And, as Stanton said, I'd made my choice to be a CIA op.  It just wasn't what I'd predicted or anticipated.

 

Most of the time on the subway trains, I was surrounded by people who avoided looking at me, since I was homeless.  I was as good as alone.

 

The routine of the days and weeks seemed to fuse into one long dark night.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	20. April 29, 2011—Situation Normal...

**April 29, 2011**

My directional sense brought me back to the subway stop that was close by Joan's homeless camp. It had been over five weeks since I'd left Joan, Lucas and the rest.  I was mostly sober that Friday evening as I walked from the subway exit to the doors of the warehouse.

 

Once I'd entered the area, I could see Joan preparing dinner at her accustomed spot. My mattress was leaning against the wall, standing on the edge of one long side, as if it was waiting for me. Those weeks I had been gone felt like a long time.

 

"John!  John!  I'm so glad to see you!"  Joan stopped what she'd been doing and rushed over to me, reaching to take my long coat from my shoulders.  That was a mistake on my part, letting her get a close look at me.  I bet she thought I was a skeleton.

 

"Oh my God, John! You look so thin!  You look even worse than when you were starting to recover from that..."

 

I reached out to her shoulder, grasping her tightly, almost painfully, by the expression that crossed her face.  "Joan.  I'm OK.  Trust me.  I feel better than I look." And she was right.  I hadn't eaten much of the time, since I'd been more focused on drinking and staying drunk.  Through those weeks, I was fully focused on my plan to drink myself to death.

 

She led me to my spot where my mattress was.  Just being in the warmth and safety of the warehouse made me drop my overly alert attitude.  The feeling of relief was so strong, I began to slide into carelessness.  I was so out of it, even though I wasn't dragging my feet or stumbling on the way from the subway stop to the warehouse, I found I didn't have the strength to move the mattress down to the floor from where it rested against the wall.  Joan helped me maneuver the mattress to the floor.

 

"Come on, John, lie down while I fix you something to eat." 

 

She was right about how much weight I'd lost.  Somewhere during my time on my subway travels, I'd scavenged a belt short enough to run through the loops on my pants to gather the waistband in to hold them up.  I hadn't looked in a mirror for a while.  I assumed that I'd only see this bearded, wild-haired stranger.  I needed to check the next time I went to the bathroom to see how bad I looked.  While I had been using the underground restrooms, I'd avoided looking in any mirrors, feeling there was no need.

 

Joan brought me a bowl of ramen noodles in broth.  She stayed to make sure I ate everything. 

 

"John..."  She gave me this worried look mixed with frustration as she sat down on the mattress next to me.  "You know this has got to stop?"

 

I looked back at her, and put my right hand over my face.  I couldn't say anything.  I sighed.  "Yeah, you're right."  I scratched the side of my beard.  "I know you're right.  I've been riding the subways all these weeks I've been out there.  I just came back so I could feel safe and get some real sleep, you know?"

 

She reached out and took my wrist, shaking it affectionately.  "Yes, I know you know you need to take better care of yourself.  And you need to stop what you're doing.  If I could, I'd make you stay here for a few days.  You need more time to recuperate."

 

I finished the bowl of ramen, and fell back on the mattress.  I was asleep before I knew that Joan had taken the bowl from my hands and back to her area.

 

* * * * * * *

A few hours later, my stomach woke me up, reminding me that I needed to eat again.  I crept up to my cache on the second floor to get some more money for food and alcohol.  Soon I would have to start panhandling or stealing to preserve what money I had remaining.  

 

Joan met me at the warehouse door as I was leaving, her grocery cart mostly empty.  I'd noticed a stack of Joan's things by the mattress area that she'd claimed as her space.

 

"Come on, John, let's go together to find some food.  I know a grocer in the neighborhood who saves wilted fruit and vegetables and day-old bread for me."

 

Right at that moment, my stomach growled.  There was no way I could hide my hunger from Joan.  "Yeah, Joan, let's go together.  I'm happy to help pick up or carry what we can bring back to the camp." 

 

Joan may have been homeless, and she was genuinely personable and friendly so that most everyone she met was happy to reach out to help her.  I suspected that her shopkeeper friends knew she was gathering food and other necessities for other homeless people, more than just for herself.

 

Since I was with Joan at this hour, I knew she'd probably try to prevent me from buying another bottle of alcohol for the night.  I decided that I'd have to keep my routine use of alcohol hidden from her as best I could, but that would be a real challenge, since she often found me drunk on the mattress in "my spot" in the camp.

 

I knew that I would have to find a place away from Joan and the others to make my planned suicide successful.  Meanwhile, I would help her gather the groceries and bring them back to the warehouse.

 

It was easy right then to decide to stay at the camp for a couple of days.  I'd use the time to regroup, get some mental clarity and plan a more efficient suicide for myself.  The kind of suicide that I deserved.

 

Thoughts about Jess and my failure to help her were never far away.  It had been almost five months since her husband, that asshole Arndt, had killed her.  I always wanted to remember how the choices I'd made—thinking I was protecting her from me and the unpredictable life I led in Special Forces and later the CIA—had resulted in her death.  

I never wanted to forget how Alicia Corwin's initial orders for Stanton and me to go on that fucked up mission to Ordos had prevented me from saving Jess.  I never wanted to forget how Snow's refusal to permit me taking personal leave stopped me from my most worthy op—saving Jessica.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	21. May 1, 2011—Blood Rites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, John.

**May 1, 2011**

_"John—you are a worthless piece of shit!  You couldn't even shoot me.  You're such a Boy Scout_ — _you fucking couldn't or wouldn't follow Snow's orders.  You dumb fuck!  You want to believe that there is some grand code of ethics that runs the world?  You should have known that I would shoot to kill.  I really did shoot you and why the fuck didn't you just be the weakling you are and die?  And now, you don't even have the balls to kill yourself!  See...  You're no real man.  You're useless, just a loser.  No matter what you tried to do, you still couldn't protect that pathetic lover of yours."_

 

_Stanton moved quickly to reach down to grab my crotch._

* * * * * * *

I snapped awake, my left arm blocking and shoving Stanton's dream hand away.

 

That was too real.

 

My whole body started to shake in reaction.  My face was sweaty and I was panting as if I'd been running.  I hoped that I hadn't cried out, hadn't yelled, hadn't disturbed anyone sleeping nearby.

 

I rolled off the mattress and stumbled my way in the dark to the light from the men's room thinking, "Dammit, Stanton!  Won't you leave me the fuck alone?!" 

 

Was there no end to her shit?  When was I going to be done with her abuse?

 

Once I got to the latrine, I leaned my hands on the edge of one of the white sinks.  I managed not to vomit this time.  I didn't want to look in any of the mirrors to see tears dripping down my face.  I didn't want to see that my reflection matched how I felt inside—desperate, grief stricken, and broken.  I wanted to stop this.

 

I needed a drink.  Maybe I should drink a whole bottle of booze, this time.  I had to do something to put an end to all my miserable shit.  I couldn't take this much longer.  Not only were my mind and memories torturing me, but my dreams were, too.

 

And then I realized that today was my birthday.  "Happy fucking birthday," I snorted in self loathing.  

 

I felt so shitty and worthless inside.  I wanted to make this my final birthday.  I didn't deserve to stay on earth.  It was 'way past time.  I should have committed suicide sooner.

 

Since it was still dark outside, I threw myself back on the mattress on the floor and fell into an agitated sleep.

 

* * * * * * *

Later that morning, I woke up knowing that I had to leave Joan's encampment for the last time.

 

I went up to the hidden spot in the wall on the second floor where I'd stored the money, fake IDs, one firearm and the knives I'd retrieved from that cache in the graveyard in Queens.  Today was the day I had to find a cheap room in a rent-by-the-hour flop house for some privacy.  I had to be alone so I could finally kill myself.  I was such a fucking failure.  Leaving the IDs, I took enough cash with me to pay for two nights and grabbed a couple of folding knives and a fine-grained whetstone for sharpening.

 

My feet led me from the warehouse, first to buy a large 750 ml bottle of cheap booze.  After a while, I found myself at the same "hotel" where I'd stayed before I'd taken the bus up to the hospital in New Rochelle those months ago.  There was a sense of justice about it—to kill myself in the same place where I'd ended up after I'd learned that Jess was dead.  Once I'd paid for the room, I climbed up the stairs, entered and carefully locked the door behind me.  I lay on the bedspread with my long coat still on, even though it was only the late afternoon.  I had the rest of the day and night to get really drunk.

 

For me, the easiest solution was to cut into my femoral artery and just bleed out.  The only pain involved would be actually slicing through the skin.  But I knew if I was drunk enough yet still coordinated to complete the cutting, I wouldn't really notice the pain.  I could do this.

 

After lying on the bed, drinking, I finally got up and took off my clothes, down to my boxer briefs.  Somehow, I felt that my corpse would seem more respectable if I wasn't naked when whoever found me later on. 

 

I took the knife and whetstone from the pocket of my coat.  Stroking the blade along the stone, I knew the sharper the blade, the easier the cut.  I pulled the leg of my briefs up and pierced deeply into my upper right thigh down into the artery.  It was easy, painless.

 

I passively watched the knife roll from my hand onto the floor as my blood pulsed from the incision.  Rearranging the leg of my boxers, I grabbed the bottle of booze and drank more deep swallows.  I blacked out, while I felt my blood flowing out with each heartbeat as it soaked through the fabric of my underwear.  Bleeding out would happen rapidly; I'd observed it many times on the battlefield as well as some of the CIA assignments I'd been on.  I wanted death to take me now.  

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	22. May 1, 2011—NDE

**May 1, 2011**

 

Time stopped.

 

Someone was sobbing next to me.  I could feel the shudders of their body shaking me, shaking the bed, their crying was so convulsive.

 

I opened my eyes. 

 

The light in the room had this gray, almost shivery texture, shimmering with gold and silver flecks, like I'd seen sometimes just before dawn.  Maybe I'd seen this shimmer as I was cutting into my femoral artery?   I was lying on my back.  The air had this magical, sparkling, effervescent quality as I breathed it in.  I looked over to see who was crying next to me. 

 

Jess.  It was Jessica.

 

She rose up over me, putting her hands on the mattress, her arms on either side of my head.  Her tears fell on my face, raining down.

 

"John.  I am so sorry."  Her voice choked.  "John.  I can't let you do this thing.  You _can't_ give up.  The world needs you.  I know you don't believe that.  I know that Kara has always been working to undermine you, to destroy you, your inner strength and sense of self worth.  And I am here to tell you differently."  She smiled through her tears and put her hand on my left cheek, caressing my face.

 

"Jess, how?...  How?... Why are you here?"  It was all I could do to stutter out my questions to her.  I wrapped my arms around her waist, drawing her closer.

 

"I came to save you, John.  I came to help you wake up to your truest self, your best self.  Look at you, look at what's happened."

 

I didn't understand what she meant at first.  But as I raised my head, I could see that she and I were floating above the bed where my body was lying, sprawled and bleeding into the fabric of the right leg of my boxer briefs.  And at first I thought that we were lying together on a solid bed.  Instead, we were really floating above, in that bleak room where I'd cut myself.

 

"Am I having one of those near death experiences?  Are you real?  Are you really here, Jess?"

 

"Yes, John.  This is real.  We are real, really here, right now.  And you can't come over here to this side of life just yet.  I was sent to help you."  

 

Jess's eyes glowed, shining through her tears, glowed with her love for me as she gazed at me.   Part of me felt like I didn't deserve this love, and at the same time, I felt this warm sense of peace come over me.  I trusted her.  I loved her so much.  My throat clenched tight with feelings; I couldn't speak.

 

"John, see the whiskey bottle down there, next to your body?" She tipped her head toward the scene below us on the bed.

 

I nodded yes.

 

"I'm going to help you get back in your body.  It will happen easily.  Once you are back, take the bottle and put it over the place where you are bleeding and roll over on top of it.  The pressure from your body on the bottle and the already coagulating blood on your briefs will stop the bleeding.  Will you do this for me?"

 

"Yes.  But I miss you so much, Jess.  I _love_ you."  I was crying.  I felt this strong sense of agony.  I was torn between the peace and love I wanted, what I had right then, and what Jess was asking me to do.  As I looked at my body lying on the bed below me, I could see my tears flowing from under my eyelashes, streaming down my face.

 

Jess shook my shoulder to get my attention.  "Please!  Do this for me, John?   You _need_ to do this, to save yourself.  You'll see."  She kissed me.  "You are going to do some important work.  You are going to be saving lives.  You are going to meet someone with whom you will not only be working, but who will be a trusted partner, another wonderful love in your life.  Remember, there is no jealousy here in this place, the place between our lifetimes."

 

"OK, Jess.  I love and trust you."  I wanted to kiss her again, to show her the depth of my heart's love.

 

As soon as I said OK, I could feel myself pulled inexorably, back down into my body; I could not resist.  Somehow, I remembered the bottle, to put it on my upper right leg, to roll over and let the weight of my body apply pressure to the cut I had pierced into my thigh.

 

I stayed like that, face down, unconscious on the bed until I woke up the next morning.  The arterial bleeding had, indeed, stopped.  The blood had dried on my boxers.  The wound had closed and amazingly was almost invisible except for the crusted blood that remained around it. 

 

By then, I thought I'd forgotten most of what Jess had told me, everything except that I knew how much she loved me.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed this sentence and sentiments from kmmerc's story, "War" —  
> "Remember, there is no jealousy here in this place, the place between our lifetimes."  
> I could not have said it better.
> 
> And I have to mention Wanderer's story, "Shimmer," and thank her for the inspiration to connect (use?) with her "shimmer phenomenon."


	23. May 2, 2011—What's Next?

May 2, 2011

When I woke up, my face was lying in a pool of drool and tears, even though my mouth was dry from all the alcohol I'd drunk earlier as well as from the blood loss.

I raised my head, expecting to see Jessica sitting on the bed, waiting for me to regain consciousness, but she was gone.

What had happened to me?

I was still alive. I'd tried my best to kill myself. Despite my inebriation and my best medical cutting technique, with Jess' help, I'd ended up saving my life instead.

My mind was in a vortex, spinning with confusion. From what I'd noticed, every time I'd done my best to kill myself, and even when I hadn't tried, like that time I'd drunk so much alcohol at Joan's warehouse camp that I'd almost aspirated my vomit, Jess had come to stop my death, and save me from myself.

I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to get a better grasp on what was happening to me. Not only had Jess shown up right when I was going to succeed in killing myself, there was this shimmery light around me, like some sort of protective aura.

Instead of staying in that deserted room, I got dressed and decided to go back to Joan's place. I needed to think things through somewhere that felt like home, somewhere reassuring, familiar and quiet.

It looked like whenever I tried to actively take action to kill myself, I would be prevented somehow. It looked like the only way I could manage to commit suicide was by drinking myself to death. Nothing, no one, especially Jessica, had stopped me from doing that so far.

Putting my coat on over my clothes, I grabbed that mostly full, dried blood-encrusted whiskey bottle that had saved my life, and walked slowly back to the encampment in the early afternoon. I forfeit the room rent for the second night.  I was so out of it, I didn't even consider taking the time to clean all trace of my occupancy from the night before. I left bloody sheets and blankets on the bed.

By the time I found my mattress on the floor, the warehouse space was empty and quiet. Even Joan and her grocery cart were gone for the day.

What I'd gone through yesterday had worn me out physically and emotionally. I didn't even consider drinking what was left in the bottle as I sat, leaning against the wall as I waited for the night to fall.

After hitting the latrine to take a leak, I looked in the mirror and saw my bearded pale face. I looked like I'd been put through the wringer. Little did most people realize, I was the one who put myself through all of the emotional abuse I deserved.

All I felt able to do was to just sit in the semi-darkness and wonder what next.

I was at a loss, a dead end. Nothing came to me as far as what I could do next.  Ironic, when I thought about it.  Dead end, indeed.  Last night, I'd just about put an end to myself.

By the time Joan and the others returned for the night, I was sitting listlessly in my corner. For whatever reason, Joan came over to check up on me, and share a cup of hot soup with ramen noodles. It was all I could do to stop myself from sighing out loud in resignation.

I was still alive, and I _knew_ didn't deserve to be.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	24. May 3 Through July 4, 2011—Solo Into Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Reese's Brooklyn Bridge suicide attempt taken from the original script for the Pilot written by Jonathan Nolan: http://www.zen134237.zen.co.uk/Person_of_Interest_1x01_-_Pilot.pdf  
> Bad Robot—Warner Bros Television—February 4, 2011.

### May 3 Through July 4, 2011

 

I spent the next two months following a vague routine.  

 

As I'd planned before, I spent most of my time on the streets and alleys away from Joan's warehouse, panhandling, freeloading, stealing, and scrounging food and other things from Dumpsters.  I didn't want to go tap into my other caches of money and weapons I'd previously stashed around the City.  It was easier to hide in plain sight as a homeless man, since I'd observed that I was mostly ignored and invisible to pedestrians and motorists alike.  

 

Since the weather in the New York City area was growing hot and humid, I could find places to sleep out in the open, where the police or other security guys wouldn't bother me.  Or I'd ride the subways at night after cadging spare change from passers by—enough for the train fare.  The "Veteran" sign Joan'd made for me came in handy to bum money on a daily basis.  Sure, eating food from Dumpsters may not have been healthy, but it was still something to eat.  Any extra cash I had I used to buy bottles of cheap whiskey, to keep my blood alcohol levels at a steady saturation.  Just enough for a continual buzz but not enough to have me stumbling down drunk.

 

After Jess' intervention and my near death experience on May first, I tried to poison myself in early June with strychnine I'd bought at one of the hardware stores I'd habitually walked past.  I rented a room in a different down-at-heels hotel, since I'd left the last one with bloody evidence.  Again, I wanted some privacy to do the deed.  I drank some of the poison, and waited almost two hours.  Nothing happened.  No stomach cramps, no agitation, no muscle stiffness, no nada.  I decided that I needed to drink the rest of what was left in the bottle.  A couple of minutes later, I puked up everything, including what looked like all of the alcohol I'd been drinking during the day.  In the midst of all this vomiting, I swear I could see my body ringed with this shimmering golden light.  It looked like the same sparkling stuff I'd seen when I'd tried cutting my femoral artery that time when Jess had shown up that night in May.  

 

I wondered if Jessica was behind this shimmering shit I was seeing?

 

And sometime after that, I'd rented another similar room to try to cut my throat in privacy.  If the femoral artery didn't work, well I figured maybe I could bleed out from my carotid-jugular blood vessels.  Try as I might to cut myself, the freshly sharpened knife I was clutching kept twisting from my grip.  The closest wound I could manage was a small nick—it looked like a shaving mishap—on the side of my neck.  Once again, I noticed that fucking shimmer around me.  What the hell was wrong?!  Any and all of my suicide attempts that I'd planned and executed were unsuccessful.

 

By the time the month of July came around, I knew I had to keep trying, to do _something!_  Slow poisoning by alcohol just wasn't cutting it.  It wasn't fast enough.

 

Late one early July evening, I climbed up from the pedestrian walkway of the Brooklyn Bridge up to stand on the guard rail.  I took a last swig from my pint of whiskey and tossed it over the edge, watching the bottle spin in its descent until it hit the river.  I was balancing on the rail, ignoring all the traffic as I contemplated my final moments. Suddenly, I saw the distant multicolored white, red, and blue flashes of fireworks.  Holy shit!  It was the Fourth of July!  I'd lost track of time, the days of the week, what month it was! Not only did I notice the sparkle of the pyrotechnics, I could also see that shimmer surrounding me.  What looked like glittering air started to block out my view of the East River below me.  For whatever reason, my determination to jump vanished as soon as I saw those celebration-displays in the air a mile away.

 

I carefully stepped back off the rail on to the walkway and made my way over to Brooklyn.  Time to find another place to hole up and rest for the night.  Would this shimmer-thing never leave me the fuck alone?  At least lately I hadn't had to face Stanton or Snow invading my dreams turning everything back into that abusive nightmare I'd spent with the Agency.  I was in my dark ordeal alone, this time, thank God.  

 

Still, I wished I could see Jess right then.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	25. July 5 Through September 21, 2011—A Zombie in the Land of the Living

July 5 Through September 21, 2011

 

After a couple more suicide attempts that kept going sideways—that damned shimmer showed up every time! goddammit!—I felt as though I was cursed to be in some state of limbo, between life and death.  I'd gone back to Joan's warehouse, retrieved the 9 mm firearm I'd unearthed from my spy-cache in Queens, but when I'd later tried to shoot myself, that glittering air-shimmer came back and the gun jammed for no reason.  Even after I repeatedly cleaned it, and checked on the mechanism, that 9mm continued to jam!  I finally threw it on the floor in frustration.  What the Fuck!

 

If I could strangle myself, like in one of those auto asphyxiation scenarios, I would.  I'd hold my breath if I could only die and end this.

 

I was doomed to endlessly wander the streets and subways of New York, homeless and alone, with no respite in sight. Fuck that shit!  Even hell would be better than that. But it looked like my only option was the semi-oblivion of alcohol with the resulting slow death.

 

When I went back to the homeless encampment, I spent most of my time sitting or lying drunk on my mattress in the corner. In one of my more sober moments, I moved my proximity away from Joan's spot on the warehouse floor to a spot closer to my hiding place in the wall on the second floor.  I'd been noticing that the others had started to avoid coming near me. Maybe my depressed aura of hopelessness felt contagious; they wanted to avoid any possible emotional infection from me.

 

I was usually careful about disposing of my empties, but often, they would stack up next to my mattress—some still with varying levels of alcohol remaining inside.  I was getting more sloppy with the environment around me.

 

I knew I smelled bad and I didn't give a shit.  My hair was a dirty, uncombed, salt and pepper wreck that had grown to be too long. But even after so many years having it cut short in a military-style, I didn't care how it looked.  My beard was unkempt.  Who the fuck cared anyway?  Not me.  I had no one to please and no place to go.

 

Even though I wanted to die, there was no way I could make myself die, not even by accident.  I was cursed to stay alive.  That shimmer stuff protected me no matter what I did, or other people tried to do to me.

 

The next few weeks I spent most of my time down in the dark, roaming on the subway lines.  I made it a point to not make eye contact with anyone.  I would sit with my bottle of rye in my coat pocket, being lit just enough so nobody would throw me off the train and charge me for public intoxication.

 

I wanted to die.   I'd tried every way I could think of, but...  

 

I was stuck here in this hell that was Land of the Living, while I inside I was feeling more and more dead. On the outside, I appeared to be alive, even though I probably looked like a living shell. Inside, I was a zombie traveling single-mindedly on a slow-moving, alcohol-soaked trek to the grave.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	26. September 22, 2011—Confrontation on the Subway: I Meet Carter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've transcribed the dialog from the Pilot that premiered on September 22nd, 2011. No copyright infringement intended or implied.

September 22, 2011

 

Why won't this train ride end?  I'd found Jessica, that one person who connected me to the world.  I'd become someone different, someone better.

 

I'd pushed her away for what I'd hoped was a better life than I could have given her with my uncertain schedule and secret assignments, first with Delta and then the CIA.

 

She'd gotten married and then been taken from me, killed by Peter Arndt.

 

What had I become then?

 

I'd turned into a monster while I was working with the CIA.  Mark Snow and especially thanks to Kara Stanton and how she'd trained me to "become the dark," not just walk in the dark. And I was too late to save Jessica...or myself.

 

I wished I could die right then.  My heart ached.  My head hurt.  My brain was stewed.  I could barely keep my balance on the seat.  Goddammit!  When was I gonna die?  I missed Jess so much.  Yeah, I knew.  It was all my fault that she was dead.

 

I was still on the subway, riding the train in Hell.

 

I sat on the hard commuter seat of the subway car.  It was early morning, sometime around 0300, I'd guess.  In my mind's eye, I saw Jessica with me when the two of us were in that hotel room in Mexico.  It was September 11, 2001.  I'd just told her that I'd signed my papers to leave the Army.  There was nothing really left for me to do.  I'd been trained for Special Forces work against terrorists.  I was feeling over-qualified and irrelevant—where had all the terrorists gone?

 

And then the news came over the TV about what had happened that morning in New York City.

 

Jess watched, a stunned, horrified look on her face, as the video broadcast the World Trade Center towers crashing down earlier that day.  I realized that my status had changed from unimportant into essential.  I knew that I had to stay in Delta Force to help my teammates continue to work our ops for our country.  We were experts and instantly had become indispensable in the war against terrorism.  I could not let them down.  I _had_ to re-enlist.  Little did I know then what my choices would mean for the rest of my life and Jessica's as well.

 

* * * * * * *

I'd been riding the train for long hours. I'd been spending most of my time grieving and drinking for Jess, remembering her love and the happiness we shared.  I wanted her back so bad, all I did while I was traveling underground was ache as I remembered how sweet and kind she was.  And how she was gone forever.

 

I was drunker than usual.  I figured that I could get away with that level of intoxication at that time of night.  There weren't many passengers—a mostly empty car with the usual company of homeless people trying to sleep and keep warm, drug addicts riding to or from their suppliers, and petty criminals looking to advertise how bad ass they were.

 

In the midst of my alcohol-fuzzed daydreaming, I saw this group of five young white tough-guy wanna-bees swagger into the car from the entrance at the far end away from me.  They were so full of themselves.  I watched from the corner of my eye as they tried to intimidate the real gangbangers already standing in front of me.

 

I was watching the black dudes talking among themselves. "...whatever ya wanna do, ya know?"  When the lead white asshat trying to look tough with his 18 carat gold necklace held in between his lips bumped into black guy #1 who turned and stared dead-eyed into this supposed ring leader's face.  #2 black dude showed the lead punk the gun in his waistband.

 

"What, where'd you get that?  A cereal box?  Huh?  Ya wanna see a real gun?" the necklace-chewing asshole drawled.

 

A third black guy got up from his seat, tapped #2 on the back and the three of them left the car. "Forget you!" #3 said, and the three real hard asses exited the car, fed up with the white cocksuckers and their punk-ass-motherfucker behavior.

 

One of the white guys who looked to be one of the white troublemaker's "sergeants" said, "Every little punk is carrying now, Anton."  So that was the name of the short-stuff leader.  "It's why your father wanted us to take the car home."

 

Anton snarked, "Relax.  Pick up new hardware next week, restore a little order."

 

Anton looked over and spotted me.  "Besides, when we take the car, we don't get to meet new friends,"  he said with a sarcastic twist to his voice, "Like this guy."  He came closer, leaning over me, and snickered.

 

I was so used to being ignored and invisible.  I vaguely observed the action from my peripheral vision.  I was surprised that the leader, who acted as though he suffered from SGS—"short guy syndrome"—even noticed me and my pint bottle of whiskey.  What did he think he was gonna do to me?

 

Anton reached under my coat and tried to take my half filled whiskey bottle out of my hand.  I wasn't having any of it.  Quick as a striking snake, I grabbed his right wrist.  He hadn't expected that I'd react.  I glared a cold stare at him, daring Anton to try more.

 

I released him and my bottle.

 

He looked back at his compatriots, and then turned back to me, "You bring enough for the whole group?"

 

I didn't want to deal that shit.   It would only lead to trouble of the lethal kind.  I retreated into myself and hoped that those assholes would just leave me the fuck alone.

 

"Have to teach you about sharin'."  Anton wouldn't let it go, wouldn't leave me alone.

 

I took a deep breath, sighing to myself.  I thought, "Not this shit again."  I would have to deal with punk-ass kids who didn't know when to just drop it.   _Red Shirt_ leaned over me.  I could tell he was getting ready to try something.  I reached out, grabbed his belt and pulled, then I dislocated his shoulder.  In quick succession, I kneed a second guy in the groin, punched a third in the throat, elbowed another would-be assailant, who'd gotten behind me, in the nose, and then grabbed Anton by his throat, constricting his airway with my left hand.  The remaining four of his gang lay on the floor of the subway car in various states of damage.

 

After Anton collapsed on the floor of the subway car, I realized that these were just kids!  I could have easily killed Anton, snapped his neck.  And killed the rest of them with no problem.  I was still this monster in the dark.  I would never walk in the light again.

 

Oh my God!  My realization felt like a stab in my head.

 

After all those months since Jessica's death, since my many attempts to commit suicide, maybe I'd found the easy way out.  Once the NYPD had me, it was only a matter of time that my fingerprints would lead the CIA to find me, and finally put that black bag over my head.

 

Finally, my fingerprints would give me the opportunity to die.

 

Finally, I would be really dead.

 

Finally, I could atone for Jessica's death.

 

* * * * * * * 

I was taken to the 8th Precinct of the NYPD.  For whatever reason, the Transit Bureau branch turned my case over to the officers of the 8th.  I was the victim in this encounter.  I watched from a window in an interrogation room at the precinct as a black woman officer walked up to where the gang sat benched with bloody noses and other bruises.

 

She spoke to one of her NYPD colleagues, "I'll need a statement from the bum.  Which hospital did they take him to?"  Anton and his punk ass crew looked a lot worse for wear as they sat waiting on that bench for the arrest process to proceed.

 

"He declined treatment.  We have video on it, though."

 

After the two of them reviewed the surveillance videotape on the computer monitor, the woman officer looked to see where I was, and her colleague pointed at the window, pointing at me.  I was going to have none of it.  There was no way I was going to co-operate with anybody.

 

She walked in through the door to the room where I sat, "You know, you could have done me a favor and let those guys land a couple more punches."

 

I sat there waiting as I turned the clear plastic water cup in circles on the table with my left hand.

 

She continued to interrogate me, "Question for you—lookin' at that tape, I'd say you'd spent some time in the service."  She stood in front of me, crossing her arms over her chest.  I still didn't respond.  "But you don't learn to fight like that in the regular Army."  She leaned her hip on the table close to me, and smiled at me in an almost sarcastic way, as if she knew more than she was putting on.  "So, what were you?  Special Forces?  Delta?!"

 

I avoided looking at her directly, focusing my attention on that plastic cup.

 

She continued to talk, ignoring my silence, "I'm Carter.  You didn't give us a name."  She walked over to the water cooler in the room, and filled a fresh plastic cup full.

 

I finally spoke up, "You know it's funny.  Seems like the only time you need a name now is when you're in trouble.  So...Am I in trouble?"

 

"I don't know—you tell me."  She handed me the filled cup of water.  "You're the one livin' on the street."  She became more thoughtful and hitched her hip back on the edge of the table.  "Yeah, makin' that transition back can be tough.  Some guys I knew got a little lost."

 

Carter was trying the "good cop" approach on me, trying to make me feel I could actually trust her.

 

She went on, "Needed a little help adjusting."  

 

I took a sip of water as I thought, "Yeah, right.  What do _you_ know about me?!"

 

"You need some help?"  Her eyes looked as though she cared.  But after what I learned from the Agency, I knew that it was easy for a trained operative to manipulate the situation.

 

I drank deeply from the plastic cup, looking Carter straight in the face, not giving away anything.

 

"Of course, some other guys I knew," Carter carefully picked up the plastic cup with her fingers on the inside, so she wouldn't disturb my prints, and continued, "...they'd done so many evil things, they felt like they needed the punishment."  She turned on a TV monitor, re-playing my fight that a security camera had taken on the subway so I could see it.

 

"That sound like your story?"  She was getting close.  Too close to my truth.  No way in hell was I going to tell her anything about me, my past, or my plans.

 

"Excuse me for a second."  Carter carefully picked up the plastic cup again, her fingers inside, avoiding my finger marks and left the room.  As she took the cup with her, I knew that I'd sealed my own doom.  It wouldn't be long before the NYPD—and the Company—would know everything about me and where I was.  After that, I knew my death would happen quickly.  It was a sure thing—suicide by CIA.

 

While Carter was wherever she was, working with the fingerprint guys, I watched a briefcase carrying man wearing a tan suit enter the precinct. "I'm here for my client," he said, pointing at me through the screened glass.  What the fuck?!

 

I walked out of the precinct offices with the attorney, "I appreciate the help, counselor, but who's picking up the tab?"  I was met by two bodyguard-types wearing short dark colored overcoats, standing in front of a black Lincoln Town Car.  I knew the type—I used to be just like them.

 

"Our employer wants a word with you."  The first guy approached me from my left, I gave side-eyes to #2 on my right, as I waited for him to make an aggressive move.  Guy #1 gestured to the passenger door, then opened it as I slid in and sat on the smooth leather seat.  I didn't know who these guys were or where they were taking me.  I didn't trust them or anyone.  I expected the worst.  I could feel that they were sizing me up like paid monsters.  

 

I didn't catch Carter walking out of the precinct offices, looking for me.  I was already gone.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	27. September 23, 2011—I Meet Finch and the Rest Is History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've transcribed the dialog from the Pilot that premiered on September 22nd, 2011. No copyright infringement intended or implied.

September 23, 2011

 

Shortly after dawn, the town car stopped at a park under the Queensboro Bridge.  As I got out of the car, I noticed a man somewhat shorter than me standing on the grass near a park bench, waiting.  He was this techie-looking guy wearing glasses.  His dark hair was cut in what looked almost like a kind of Mohawk that stuck up in crazy spikes at the top of his head.  He was probably the employer the accomplices had mentioned.  "Do I owe you money?" I shook the pockets of my long coat as if to show how empty they were.  "'Cuz I'm, uh, running a little short at the moment."  I was joking around, trying to postpone what I thought was the inevitable—for all I knew, maybe he was a well-dressed hit man, sent by the CIA?—while the two bodyguard-types stayed and watched by the side of the town car, just in case their boss needed them.

 

"You don't owe me anything, Mr. Reese.  That's the name you prefer, isn't it?  I know you've had several.  Don't worry, I'm not going to tell anybody about you."  He stood there glancing between me and the view of the East River, his hands stuffed in the pockets of a navy blue short overcoat.

 

"You don't know anything about me," I said.  I was convinced he had the wrong man.

 

"I know exactly _everything_ about you, Mr. Reese."  As he stared in the direction of the river, the breeze ruffling his hair he said, "I know about the work you used to do for the government."  I could see him swallow, his throat muscles working.  "I know about the doubts you came to have about that work.  I know the government along with everybody else thinks your _dead_!"

 

This was too much!  He knew too much!  I strode over to this little know-it-all, ready to silence him for good, his bodyguards moved toward me, close behind.  He gestured that they stand-down, that he didn't need their help. 

 

"I know you've spent the last couple of months trying to drink yourself to death," he continued.  "I know you're contemplating more efficient ways to do it."

 

How did he know so much, I kept thinking?  This was incredible!  I'm sure my face showed my disbelief.

 

"So you see, knowledge is not my problem."  He paused.  "Doing something with that knowledge—that's where you'd come in."  He turned to face me with an odd movement—he turned his upper torso, not his head pivoting on his neck alone.  "And you can call me 'Mr. Finch'." 

 

After a long pause, where I could hear the background noise of the traffic on the bridge, Finch went on,  "I think you and I can help one another.  I don't think you need a psychiatrist or a support group, pills."

 

This guy was ridiculous!  Too much!  What was he thinking? How did he know so much about me and my situation?  All I could ask was,  "What do I need?"

 

"You need a purpose.  More specifically, you need a _job_!" Finch said, looking at me with a sideways twist of his head and spine.  

 

* * * * * * *

The town car with the two flunkies, dropped Finch and me off at a downtown intersection in the middle of The City.  "Eight million people," Finch started, "You know what they all have in common—none of them knows what happens next.   Someone is murdered in New York City every eighteen hours.  At the end of the day, one of these people will be— _gone_!"  Finch didn't look too happy about that.  His lips compressed into a thin line, his blue eyes narrow.

 

"Bad things happen to people every day," was all I could say.  "You can't stop that."  I gave him a resigned look. 

 

"What if you _could_?  Not the things that happen in the heat of the moment, but so many crimes are planned—days, weeks in advance."  He gave me a challenging look.  "What if you could stop those?  I've got a list.  A list of people who are about to be involved in very bad situations.  Murders.  Kidnappings.  The people that are on my list, they have no idea that anything's about to happen to them." 

 

It was all I could do to not turn away from this man, my feelings of grief that weren't so deeply buried inside me were beginning to overwhelm me.   This man with his inconceivable offer was...was...  I didn't know what to think...

 

But he continued.  "Most of them are just ordinary people.  Like her."  Finch pointed out this young woman of average height, blonde hair—late twenties, early to mid-thirties, perhaps?  Wearing a tan trench coat.  "Her name is Diane Hanson.  And this week, she's at the top of my list.  I don't know exactly what's going to happen, or what her role in it is." 

 

I watched as she paid for and grabbed a paper cup of coffee and maybe what looked like a sandwich in a brown paper bag from the nearby coffee cart, and then she walked away in her high heels on the wet sidewalk, shiny with the remnants of an earlier rainfall.

 

"She might be the victim, she could be the perpetrator.  All I know is that she is _involved._ "  This whole thing Finch was proposing was—the only way I could describe it was— _outrageous._   Impossible.  Unreal.  "I want you to follow her, figure out what's going to happen.  And stop it from happening.  So what do you think?"

 

So, this asshole wanted me to join in his fool's errand.  What did I think?  I thought, "You've got the wrong man.  If you you think you know everything about me, then you'd know that even with all of my skills, that I failed to save the most important person in my life from being murdered by her husband."

 

I was blunt and verbally slammed him between the eyes with my answer, "I think you're a bored rich guy.  I think that woman's your ex-wife or someone you rode in an elevator with once.  Either way, I think I'm done."  I turned away from him and walked up the street, quickly meeting up with flunky #2, who tried to stop me from leaving.  Even though he was an inch or so taller than me, I easily swung him to the side, knocking his head into the nose of flunky #1.  I put two out of commission with one maneuver.  I didn't look back to see Finch's look of disappointment as I kept on walking away.

 

I had better things to do with my time—such as focusing my energies on continuing to find a quicker way to kill myself because I'd failed Jessica.

 

* * * * * * *

I knew I had to find a way to hide from this Finch, the NYPD, that had put out an APB for me, and broadcast notices on the TV news that described me as an "unidentified homeless man,"—they had a photo from the subway video—as well as to actively avoid getting captured by the CIA.  I bought some new blue jeans and other clothing to change myself from looking homeless to "normal."  I found another cheap hotel room.  I cut my hair and shaved my beard off.  I knew better than to go visit Joan's encampment— _I knew better._   I wanted to keep everyone there safe from what might follow me.  But, Joan probably thought I'd dropped off the face of the earth.

 

I fell asleep—more like passed out—the whiskey bottle conveniently falling out of my grasp off the bedside table on to the floor, the shaving cream between my fingers completely forgotten, the samurai movie blaring on the TV.  

 

I was so drunk.  At the end of the day, I didn't give a shit.

 

* * * * * * *

The next thing I knew, I woke up to the ringing of a telephone.  I was not in the same room where I'd fallen asleep!  Everything—the bed, bedding, furnishings—was definitely luxurious and upscale. I was still wearing the same clothes that I'd fallen asleep in. And, to add insult to injury, my left hand was zip-tied at my wrist to the headboard of the bed frame!  And the fucking telephone refused to stop ringing!

 

I picked up the telephone handset, not getting a chance to say "hello," and heard Finch's voice on the other end, "You need to understand, Mr. Reese, the information I have is incomplete, but it's _never wrong_!"  As he talked, I continued to try to get my hand loose from that fucking zip-tie!  And Finch didn't quit talking, "You need to know what it would be like to be forced to listen to someone get murdered and not be able to do anything about it."  He spoke in a very matter of fact tone. With that, Finch hung up.

 

In the next room over, on the other side of the closed door, I heard the sounds of a woman screaming.  I heard the crashing of things being thrown, toppled over, and the grunts and yelling of an angry man.  The sounds of a woman screaming and calling for her life.  I still couldn't get loose from that zip-tie.  I grabbed the lamp on the nightstand to my right, broke the mirror that was leaning conveniently on the wall to the side of the night stand, grabbed a shard of mirror-glass and sawed into the nylon zip-tie, simultaneously freeing myself, and slicing into my right hand.

 

Holy Shit!  That woman needed help and right away!

 

I got up off the bed, and stumbled across the room, opened the adjoining door between the two rooms from my side, and then fell on the rich carpet under the coffee table as I discovered the door into the other room was unlocked and opened allowing my momentum to carry me through faster than I'd anticipated. 

 

I found myself in the same room with Finch, a tape recorder playing, the speaker on that coffee table in front of my face as I looked up, a male voice intoning, "Zero-One-Three-Eight-Dot-Seven-X-ray... Twelve-August-2008, one-thirty-seven AM."

 

Finch was quietly sitting, his back toward me, his spine straight, in one of those upper class, antique-styled hotel chairs, facing the tape recorder with what looked like a folded tabloid newspaper in his hands.  He turned his upper body to face me.  "Too late.   This recording is three years old."

 

I couldn't believe the stunt Finch had pulled!  He'd kidnapped me.  Maybe drugged me.  He was behaving as bad ass as I had when I was with The Company!  It was all I could do to catch my breath. 

 

"A woman murdered in this room by her husband."  Finch turned and opened the newspaper front page headline so I could read it.  "For the insurance.  You were too late for her.  Just like you were too late for your friend, Jessica."  

 

Inside I snapped.  I was instantly furious.  I thought, "Now, _all right_!  Where the fuck did Finch get the right to tell me about my role in Jessica's death?!  My greatest fuckup?"  This was too way much!

 

"You were halfway around the _world_ when she was killed."  How did he know _that_?!  That Ordos mission I was sent on nine and a half months ago was off-the-books, NSA/CIA and top secret!

 

His remark pissed me off so much, I rushed at him and put my right forearm across his windpipe, almost crushing it, as I jammed his neck and body up against the corner of the wall.  "What the hell do you know about it?!"  I felt like I was almost screaming in my rage.

 

"It's the truth."  Finch managed to speak fearlessly around my choke hold, "You left the government because they _lied_ to you.  _I never will._   I think all you ever wanted to do is _protect_ people."  I couldn't believe it!  Finch really knew me this well?  I couldn't believe that I'd almost killed him, my arm forced across his throat and he was still unafraid of me!  I was so stunned by my behavior, I backed off and had to sit down.   My ingrained reaction almost killed this man!

 

I was in shock as I sat there, watching the tape recorder, the reels with empty, unrecorded tape still turning.  "That's a wiretap recording.  NSA or FISA.  Government."  I could barely talk, my emotions were so high.  I was overcome, appalled.  I felt deep remorse that I'd almost broken his neck, this man whom I later came to know and trust as my friend.   One of my only friends.   Harold, my closest friend.  "But you're not government,"  I choked out.

 

"No, I'm not."  Finch was adjusting his tie, putting his fingers along the front of his shirt collar, trying to recover from the impact of the strike of my arm I'd applied to his throat.  "I guess you could call me," he said, in between gasps for air, "A concerned third party.  You couldn't have saved this woman."

 

Yeah, I knew that, but if I could've... I would've given it my all to protect and save her.

 

"Or your friend."  Finch had this look of complete compassion on his face.  He _knew,_ somehow, how I felt about Jessica, my deep caring and love for her, that we were actually more than just friends.  He knew about my feelings of deep regret and grief about what had happened to her in the end.  "But you could've if you had known _in time_!  And that's the other thing I'm offering you.  A chance to _be there in time!"_

Finch took Diane Hanson's photo from a pocket inside his suit jacket, and handed it to me.  "It's not too late for her.  You could help me stop what's about to happen.  The question is, _'Will you'?"_

 

I looked at the woman's picture I held in my hand.  Finch was giving me an opportunity—a second chance—to indirectly rectify my greatest failure.  All I could think of to say in response to Finch and his offer was "Why not?"  and "Hell, yes!"  I _had_ to...

 

For Jessica, for Finch... _and_ maybe for myself.

 

Would it be enough?

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilog soon to follow...
> 
> Sorry! I Know. I know... Real Life has been cutting into my "Writing Time."


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